Secrets and Lies
by Samantha Winchester
Summary: International Rescue embarks on a difficult and hazardous ocean rescue mission – unaware that one of the people they save will prove to be a danger to their entire organization…
1. Chapter One

**

_ONE_

**

It was still well before dawn on Tracy Island – the deep black velvet of the sky not yet ready to betray even the slightest hint of pink at the horizon. Scott Tracy, the eldest of billionaire former astronaut Jeff Tracy's five sons, stood on the balcony outside his quarters with glass in hand – feeling the warmth of the twelve-year-old single malt as it trailed down into his stomach. The sweet-smelling tropical breezes were balmy even at this hour, the silence broken only by the soft slap of waves against the shore below. _This must be the most peaceful place on Earth_, he thought. _How ironic that International Rescue lives here._

He glanced back at the bed he had spent barely three hours in that night. Most people knew he was a light sleeper, but the truth was, he honestly couldn't remember the last time he had slept, voluntarily, through an entire night. It was often assumed it was a habit he'd picked up during his military service. But his family knew differently – they were all used to him roaming around the house at odd hours of the morning in the grip of an insomniac fit. They shrugged their shoulders at guests' questions, as if to say, _What? It's just Scott. He's always been like that._

He leaned on the balcony railing, staring out into the night with unfocused eyes. He'd had the nightmare again. It had been a while since its last nocturnal visit, and he'd hoped this time it was finally gone for good. Part of the trouble was, try as he might, he could never remember it well enough to get a good handle on it. All he knew was that he always woke up covered in icy sweat, heart hammering as if he'd just run a four minute mile, a sick feeling of dread deep in his guts that sometimes took hours to go away.

Scott took another swallow of the whisky, needing its bite and fire inside him. Why was he doing this now? He had to snap out of this funk. _Tracy, what you need is a good, solid rescue operation,_ he told himself irritably, running a hand through his thick dark brown hair. _Tire you out until you can't stand up – then you'll sleep._

A sudden shout from the interior of the house jolted him out of his contemplations. He quickly pulled on the pair of shorts he'd been wearing before he went to bed, and headed toward the sound, glad to have something to do.

In the lounge, Gordon, the fourth Tracy son and only aquanaut in the family, was planted in front of the vidscreen. "Hey, Gordo, what are you doing up?"

Gordon waved at him to shut up, turning up the volume on his chair's touch-pad. Curious, Scott looked at the screen.

A grim-faced news anchor was talking. "…Once again, we're now receiving confirmation that disaster has struck for the crews of at least three of the yachts competing in this year's Southern Oceans Cup. Billed as the world's most dangerous ocean race, the competition involves fifteen yachts, each with a crew of eleven, traversing what can be the most treacherous stretches of water on our globe."

A map of Antarctica appeared on the screen, a dotted red line tracing a course around the continent, beginning and ending at the tip of Western Australia.

"The pressure just took a nose dive," Gordon said, eyes glued to the screen. "That's really bad news, especially down there in the roaring forties."

"Roaring forties?" Scott asked, not as well versed in the terminology of the seas as his brother. But the anchor was talking again, as a red X appeared on the map, close to the Antarctic coast, south-south-east of Cape Horn. "Two hours ago, the leading competitors were halfway through the notorious Drake Passage, between Cape Horn and the northern coast of Antarctica, when they encountered an alarming drop in barometric pressure. The weather, it seems, is living up to its worst potential. This was the last transmission from the Canadian yacht, _Snowbird_, before we lost satellite contact with the race participants."

"Hey, what's going on?" second-eldest brother Virgil asked sleepily, wandering out into the lounge in his pajama bottoms, tufts of chestnut-colored hair sticking straight up on end.

Scott and Gordon both shushed him as the newscast on the vidscreen cut to grainy, low-light footage of what could have been anywhere to Scott's untrained eyes, but was evidently the cabin of _Snowbird. _Several men and women in foul-weather gear huddled around the spokesperson, a bearded man in his forties. "It's not an iceberg," he was saying hurriedly into the camera, the strain clear in his voice. "It's a _wave_. I wish you could see this sonofabitch – it's gotta be eight stories high. It's like the side of a cliff."

The man glanced over his shoulder briefly, then back at the camera. "If we're really lucky, we might be able to – "

There was a sudden crash, and the sound of splintering wood. The cabin on the screen reeled sideways, oilskin-clad bodies flying everywhere in a dark blur of arms and legs. Somebody screamed – and the monitor went dark.

"Jeez," Virgil said, sitting down heavily on the couch. "That's not good."

Scott couldn't suppress a smile. Virgil was well-known for waking up more slowly than his brothers, and they never knew what odd utterances they were going to get out of him until his brain was back on-line again. Under normal circumstances, Scott would have considered it his familial duty to hold up three fingers and make his brother count them. But right now, he was too caught up in the news story. No matter how many rescues he'd been a part of, he never became immune to the fear of people in real distress.

The anchor was back on. "As far as we can ascertain at this hour, at least two of the competitors, _Snowbird_ and one of the American ships, _Spirit of Nantucket_, have capsized in mountainous seas and gale force winds reaching sustained speeds of sixty knots and above. A third yacht, the Australian _Melbourne Melody_, is reported to be in serious trouble, possibly having lost her mast after being struck by lightning. The Royal Australian Air Force is mounting a search and rescue attempt, but the yachts are well out of helijet range, and even in calm seas it would take thirty-six hours to reach them by sea. The men and women on board those vessels out there may not have that long."

Scott stood up and went across to his father's desk. He hit the comlink. "International Rescue calling Thunderbird 5."

The Nordic blond features of John, the third Tracy brother, appeared on the vidscreen that instantly replaced his portrait on the wall. "Thunderbird 5, go ahead, Scott."

"John, have you been monitoring the Southern Oceans Cup race?"

"Affirmative." John's grey-blue eyes were somber. "It sounds like they're in pretty bad shape down there."

"That's what I thought. Keep an eye on it, John. Let us know right away if they start asking for help."

"F.A.B., Scott."

"Son, this is one time we shouldn't wait to be asked." Jeff Tracy strode into the room, somehow managing a fittingly commanding presence despite his paisley silk dressing gown and slippers. "Gordon, you've sailed the Drake passage a couple of times. Am I right?"

"Yes, father. Those capsized yachts don't have thirty-six hours. With waves like that, they could be smashed to pieces at any time. And once they're in the water, at those temperatures…"

Jeff nodded, coming around Scott to sit at his desk. "John, contact the local authorities and tell them we're on our way. Thunderbirds are go!"

Scott felt the familiar rush of adrenaline as he headed straight across to his familiar spot on the wall. He turned, raising his hands to grip the two fake light fixtures that hid his entry controls. As the section of wall began its 180-degree revolve, he heard his father issuing orders. "Virgil, Gordon, Pod 4. You'd better take Alan, too – we're talking about eleven people per yacht, that means more than thirty people are in trouble out there. And Virgil…take some coffee with you."

The wall section completed its turn and thunked into place, blotting out the sounds of the lounge behind him. Straight across from Scott now was a sight he never tired of – the sleek silvery tower of Thunderbird One, waiting on her pad just for him. It suddenly occurred to him that this beautiful machine was the closest thing to a full-time mistress he had, and he smiled despite himself. _Tracy, you have got to get a life before it's too late…_

Once the bridge had extended to the open entry hatch, Scott was into his uniform and taking his seat at the controls in less than two minutes. "Base from Thunderbird One. Beginning descent to launch position."

"F.A.B., Thunderbird One." His father's voice crackled in his ears.

As the ship began its way down the long ramp from her hangar to her launch position, Virgil's chute had reached the cockpit of Thunderbird Two, depositing him in the pilot's seat. Yawning, he pulled back on the lever that brought the wheel forward into position, flipped on the lights, and watched the instrument panels hum into life. He was climbing into his uniform by the time Gordon slid into the cockpit via the passenger entrance, and his eyes lit up as he saw the thermos in his younger brother's hands. "Oooh. Caffeine. I might not hit anything on launch today."

Gordon grinned, handing it over and moving to the uniform rack. Virgil could joke all he liked – but in reality he was the most precise pilot of them all, and the only time he had ever hit anything was when the USS Sentinel had accidentally shot him out of the air. Even then, he'd managed to make it back home to crash on the runway at Tracy Island, where it was easy to clean up the mess. Very convenient. Very Virgil.

Already sipping the coffee, Virgil sat back down in the pilot's seat and started the conveyor belt under Thunderbird Two. As soon as he'd picked up Pod 4, they would be on their way to the rescue zone. "Base from Thunderbird Two. Tell Alan if he doesn't get his ass down here in the next two minutes, he's going to miss the bus."

Back in Thunderbird One, Scott had finished the pre-flight check by the time his craft reached level ground at the bottom of her ramp. He pushed forward on the control levers, guiding her into launch position. "Base from Thunderbird One, request permission to launch."

Directly above him now, the swimming pool finished its sideways slide. He watched the indicator until the blinking red light changed to a steady green. "Thunderbird One, you are clear to launch."

"F.A.B. Thunderbird One is go." Scott hit the ignition switch, and the adrenaline surged back as Thunderbird One's massive rocket boosters roared to life beneath him. He pulled back on the controls, feeling the hard push against his back as she lifted off, climbing swiftly and steadily up into the night. Tracy Island shrank rapidly behind him until it was nothing but a tiny dot against the moonlit silver-black of the ocean. "Base from Thunderbird One, I'm on my way. Estimate arrival at rescue zone in approximately fifty minutes."

"F.A.B., Scott. Thunderbird Two is right behind you."

It wasn't until that moment that Scott suddenly wondered where he was going to land when he got there.

* * *

There was a voice, coming from somewhere, and it wouldn't leave her alone. She struggled to separate it from the other noises that swam around inside her head, failing at first. Crying…someone was crying, somewhere, and there were other voices, pitched low. Muffled, as if from far away, there was something else she recognized with a jolt that brought her to awareness – the scream of an angry wind.

"Tally," the voice was saying again, right beside her ear. "Tally, can you hear me?"

_Michael._ Tally Somerville finally realized the person talking to her was her brother.

Very slowly, she managed to get her eyes to open. There was a dim source of illumination coming from somewhere, like a flashlight with a very weak battery. It was unbelievably cold. Tally had to try her voice a few times before she could get out more than a salt-water-dried croak. "Mike…where are we…?"

"Are you hurt?" He was brushing her sodden hair away from her face, peering at her in the gloom.

"My head…I think…so cold…" Awareness was leaching back bit by bit. She was draped forward over something hard, maybe a table. Most of her lower body was freezing.

"You're in the water, Tally," he said. "Can't get above it any more…too high now."

"The water…" Tally gasped as memory flooded back – the pressure dropping, the wind and rain, the wall of water eight stories high that had smashed them into oblivion.

She stared at the man who was not only her brother but also the captain of the _Spirit of Nantucket_. "Oh, God, Mike – we're upside down! _We're under the boat!_"

Thick, claustrophobic panic rose up in her throat, threatening to choke her. Michael gripped her shoulder so hard she flinched from the pain. "Tally, please," he begged, voice low and edged with despair. "Some of us…didn't make it."

That stopped her. Tally dragged in a huge breath, staring around the cabin – and then trying not to. "Who?" she said, finally.

"Bob. I think he was knocked out when we went over. He was face down when I...found him. Cathy…her neck was broken."

The tears stung her eyes. "What about the others?"

"Some broken bones. I think they're going to be okay. It's just so damn cold, it's hard to tell…"

Thank God for the survival gear Michael had insisted they all put on before entering the Drake Passage, she thought. They had all griped about it at the time, but without its protection they would all be dead or dying from hypothermia by now. "Mike," she said, asking the question he'd been dreading. "What are we going to do?"

"They'll get us out. They have our position. By now search and rescue is on the way. We just have to hang on."

He was trying his best to hide it, but she knew him. He was afraid. "Search and rescue from where, Mike?" she asked, her voice very quiet now. "We were two days out, and helijets can't fly in sixty-knot winds."

He answered her only with his silence. She took another deep, shaky breath. "Can we at least help the others?"

"Can you move?"

"I think so."

"Come on, then. I found the first aid kit – it's over here."

* * *

With thirty minutes of Scott's flight still to go, Jeff Tracy's voice crackled over the comlink. "Thunderbird One from Base."

"Thunderbird One – go ahead, father," Scott acknowledged.

"John and I have been in touch with the race officials. They had taken the precaution of stationing helijets on the Antarctic mainland, but even if they were within range of the rescue zone, they still couldn't take off in this weather. The RAAF is still thirty-five hours away." He paused. "I bet you've been wondering where you're going to establish mobile control."

The corners of Scott's mouth twitched. "Well, let's just say I've been doing some pretty fancy calculations on hovering at high wind speeds."

His father laughed. "It's not as bad as that, son – not yet, at least. There's a Nimitz class aircraft carrier in the area – the USS _Colin Powell_. She's been on maneuvers with the Chilean Navy and she was on her way back home to Norfolk, Virginia. The American government has diverted her to assist in the rescue."

That's great, father – I can put down on her deck. Do we have rendezvous coordinates?"

"John's working on it with the commander of the _Colin Powell_. Stand by."

"F.A.B." Scott glanced down at his radar scope, clearly able to see the very bad weather he was flying into. This one wasn't going to cut them much slack.

* * *

Captain Andrew Howard of the USS _Colin Powell_ stared out over the heaving deck of his ship as she ploughed her way at maximum speed through the ever-roughening seas south of Cape Horn. Heading into sustained winds of sixty knots and worsening, gusting to over 150 knots, with sheets of icy rain driving almost vertically across a deck that had become slick as glass, he had ordered all aircraft secured below and all non-essential personnel to shelter. In all his years sailing the oceans, he had never encountered a storm this savage. "Ted," he said to his executive officer, "What's the latest word on those capsized yachts?"

Before Commander Ted Lawrence could answer him, the communications officer was signaling them. "Sir, it's International Rescue requesting permission to land."

"Tell him he's clear. And get a team out there to secure him as soon as he's on deck – we don't want to go down in history as the ship that let a Thunderbird slide off into the drink."

Commander Lawrence allowed himself a smile. Captain Howard stared upwards through the darkness and rain, trying to make out the incoming lights of a craft they had all heard about, but never seen. "Those International Rescue guys must be crazy," Lawrence muttered under his breath. "I wouldn't even _try_ to land in this. I hope he's good."

"I hope he's lucky," Howard answered brusquely.

"There!" Lawrence had spotted Thunderbird One's running lights, lowering out of the sky toward them.

Howard glanced back over at his communications officer. "Give him windspeed and direction – it's gusting to 150 knots out there, and if he doesn't watch it he's going to slide like a duck on pack ice. Ask him if we can be of any assistance."

In the cockpit of Thunderbird One, beads of sweat had broken out on Scott's forehead as he fought to keep his descent steady in the driving winds. "Thank the Captain for me," he grunted, "But unless he can control the weather, I don't think there's much he can do."

"Thunderbird One, this is Thunderbird Two," Virgil's voice came over the comlink. He sounded worried. "We're still an hour behind you, Scott. These headwinds are killing us. It looks very bad on the radar – are you going to be able to put down on that carrier?"

"Piece of cake," Scott grinned tightly. "It's only sixty knots without the wind shear, after all."

"_Sixty knots_?" Virgil sounded incredulous. "Scott, that's impossible! You'll put her in the drink."

"Oh, now you've gone and made it a challenge, Virg." Scott switched frequencies back to the _Colin Powell_. "USS _Colin Powell_ from Thunderbird One. Give me all the lights you've got – I'm coming in."

Swinging around toward final approach, he could see the carrier below him now, the deck lit up like a Christmas tree to guide him in. Carrier landings were something he had never encountered during his military service – not many ships in the Air Force, after all. But they were well known as the acid test of a pilot's skill, even in calm seas.

_Christ,_ he thought, looking down at the moving target that was steaming away from him at upwards of thirty knots. _It's like landing on a postage stamp._ A postage stamp that was also heaving up and down in the dark, with savage winds trying everything within their power to blow him sideways off his approach. His only plan was to make the opposite of a normal landing run – keeping the wings close to the fuselage, waiting until the last possible moment to lower the struts – and maybe, just maybe, the reduced surface area of the Thunderbird would cut down the wind drag enough to tip the odds in his favor. He hoped.

The only problem was, she was a beast to control at this altitude and these speeds without her wings. "Come on, baby," he muttered under his breath as she yawed sickeningly underneath him. "Don't fight me now, or we'll all end up going for a swim…"

"Scott," Virgil was in his ears again, voice edged with anxiety. "What's happening?"

"Can't talk now, Virgil. I'm a little busy." Scott was still struggling to lower the nose, but the winds kept buffeting her sideways and up. The carrier was close below him now – too close, he suddenly realized. His airspeed was still too high – he wasn't going to make it on this pass.

The microburst warning clamored in his ears. Before he could do anything about it, a mighty gust of wind caught the Thunderbird in its fist, throwing the craft hard to starboard as if it weighed no more than a kid's toy. Without wings to stabilize her, she rolled through forty degrees, Scott fighting desperately to get back control. He saw something very big flash past the corner of his vision and twisted his head around – realizing with horror that he was headed straight for the bridge island.

"Pull up, son, pull up!" the Captain shouted into the radio link. He and the rest of the bridge crew howled and covered their eyes as the Thunderbird's landing jet fired straight at them, scorching the metal of the bridge structure dangerously close to the observation glass. But it did the trick, blasting her up and over the island with inches to spare.

It took Scott almost another minute to bring the charging Thunderbird back under control, sweating from every pore in his body and hurling invective at the wind the whole way. God, that had been _close_ – he'd almost killed himself and the entire bridge crew of the _Colin Powell_. Wiping that thought from his mind with an effort, he concentrated on the problem at hand. Somehow, he still had to land this bird.

Maybe Virgil was right. Maybe it couldn't be done.

And then a crazy thought struck him. Very dangerous – completely insane, in fact – but it just might work. _Virgil, I'm real glad you can't see this…_

The booster rockets flared as he swung the Thunderbird wide around the bridge structure, coming in as low as he could. There came the wind again, showing its teeth, trying its best to sweep him sideways. _Okay, Tracy, just like you're landing back at the island. _The carrier directly below him again, he throttled back on the thrusters, firing the landing jet in a controlled burst. Thunderbird One's heavy tail section swung down through ninety degrees, her nose cone now pointing straight up into the stormy sky. Scott allowed himself one glance down at the very hard deck underneath him. Then he cut the engines.

It felt like dropping off a cliff. Thunderbird One literally fell out of the sky, plunging tail-first like a stone. Every nerve in his body screaming, Scott forced himself to look only at the altimeter, counting off the seconds. "Four, three, two, one…" At the last possible moment his hands moved in a blur of speed, firing the thrusters, giving her just enough of a burst from her landing retro and the pitch-yaw jets in her nose cone to knock her descent out of vertical. Thunderbird One's nose scythed down, wings swinging out, landing struts dropping into place. She smacked into the deck of the _Colin Powell_ with bruising force, bounced, and hit again. But this time she stayed down.

He could hear the cheers of the bridge crew over the comlink. "Son," the Captain said, "That is probably the worst landing I have ever witnessed in my entire career. Welcome aboard."

* * *

The forward mess hall of the _Colin Powell_ was sparsely inhabited at this pre-dawn hour, but several Navy personnel were scattered throughout the tables, doing their best to eat despite the unusually severe pitching and rolling caused by the storm. One young seaman raced into the mess at top speed, skidding to a halt at a table occupied by two of his friends. An older man, seated nearby in heavy weather gear nursing a cup of coffee, glanced over with a frown of annoyance.

"I'm telling you, it was wild!" the young seaman was saying, voice pitched high with excitement. "I've never seen a landing like it!"

"Now come on, Hicks," one of the others shook his head. "Quit yanking my chain. Nothing could put down in this weather. It's gotta be blowing fifty at least out there."

"Sixty," Hicks said. "I mean, I heard International Rescue were the best, but you should have seen this baby hit the deck."

The man sitting nearby didn't move, only a slight tilt of his head in their direction betraying his sudden interest.

"International Rescue?" That had got the attention of the young seaman's friends.

"Yep. The pilot's up with the Captain in the bridge right now. Come on!"

All three men scrambled to their feet and hurried out of the Mess Hall. The man sitting nearby watched them go. Then he finished his coffee and stood up. Disguised he might be, but there was no hiding the look of unholy joy that burned in the eyes of the Hood.


	2. Chapter Two

**

_TWO_

**

Within twenty minutes after landing, Scott had established mobile control on the bridge of the _Colin Powell_, and was sipping gratefully on a steaming cup of coffee. Through the observation windows he had a clear view of his beloved Thunderbird, lashed securely down to the deck with steel cables. "Base from Mobile Control. Are you receiving me? Over."

Nothing except the crackling of static. Scott switched frequencies and tried again. "Base from Mobile Control, are you receiving me? Over."

It was John's voice that answered him. "Mobile Control, this is Thunderbird 5. Scott, the storm is wiping out surface and most satellite communications. You'll have to relay through me."

"F.A.B., Thunderbird 5. Thunderbird Two, are you receiving me?"

"Loud and clear, Scott. I hear you're going to need a fresh pair of tighty-whities after that landing."

"Very funny, Virgil," Scott grunted – but he couldn't help but grin. "What's your ETA?"

"Should be flying over the rescue area in twenty three minutes. What's their condition?"

"Unclear at this time," John's voice chimed in. "RAAF Air Sea Rescue has managed to keep satellite contact open with only two of the yachts, both of which are toward the rear of the group. They have no visual on the capsized ships. One bit of good news, though – it looks as though the crew of the _Melbourne Melody_ have been rescued by the British yacht, the _North Sea_."

"Thanks, John." Scott said. "That's one less for us to worry about. Link us both up with the GPS locators for our targets, will you?"

"Coming right up."

Two small dots of light appeared on the radar screen in front of Scott, representing the capsized yachts – the _Snowbird _and the _Spirit of Nantucket_. He looked at the unforgiving weather pattern right on top of them and sighed. "I just hope they're still alive in there."

* * *

For Virgil, the remainder of Thunderbird Two's flying time to the rescue zone was the longest twenty minutes in his recent memory. He usually didn't mind the fact that his elder brother was always on the scene first, since most of the time he got to even the score in terms of actual usefulness once he arrived. But this time, with no information forthcoming from the rescue area, he was acutely aware of the clock ticking. He could only echo Scott's prayer that the men and women they were trying to reach would manage to stay alive long enough for International Rescue to do them some good.

One blessing – Thunderbird Two, with her huge bulk and high flying altitude, was able to make most of the journey in relative comfort. Gordon stood up from the co-pilot's seat, stretching his legs. Ever since the high-speed hydrofoil accident that had almost killed him a few years before, he couldn't sit still for long periods of time without stiffening up. "How long now?"

"Two minutes less than the last time you asked, Gordo." There was no bite in Virgil's words, though – he understood only too well. They were quiet again for a time, watching the rain drive across the cockpit shields, both thinking their own private thoughts. Then a soft, snuffling noise made them look at each other. "Is Alan asleep _again_?" Virgil said, incredulous.

Gordon glanced over his shoulder at the bench seat, just as the tow-headed youngest Tracy brother let out another snore. "Yep – I don't know how he does it. Guy could sleep through a hurricane."

The beeping of a monitor alarm alerted them to the end of their journey. "Well, you'd better wake him up," Virgil smiled, "Because we've arrived, and he'll pout if we let him miss the rescue."

* * *

The lower Virgil took Thunderbird Two, the harsher the conditions got. It took every ounce of his considerable skill and concentration to fly the slow circular search pattern through gale force winds, all the while staring down, struggling to make out anything at all in the abysmal weather. "I think I saw something," he said suddenly, voice taut with the effort of keeping his ship level.

"Where?" Alan stared, straining his eyes in the dark and the rain.

"Look at the size of those swells," Gordon murmured, pointing at a crest sweeping by beneath them that had to be forty feet high. "This is really going to be hell."

Virgil and Alan caught their brother's reflection in the cockpit shields, all of them remembering other rescues, other trips to hell and back. For better or worse, this was what they lived for. "Bring it on," Virgil said.

"There they are!" Alan shouted suddenly. "I see them!"

From the air, the capsized hulls of the _Snowbird_ and the _Spirit of Nantucket_ looked like the bleached undersides of two dead whales, bobbing like corks on the surface of the cold grey water. Virgil opened the comlink. "Mobile Control from Thunderbird Two – we have visual contact with the capsized yachts. They're close together in a small area, but there's no sign of life."

"F.A.B., Thunderbird Two," Scott's voice came back. "Virgil, what about the thermal scan?"

Virgil smiled slightly at the sound of his elder brother finishing his own thoughts. They were quite a team. "Running it now, Scott."

Nobody spoke, all of them anxiously watching the screen as Virgil guided the Thunderbird over the capsized craft. If the sophisticated thermal imaging sensors didn't pick up any appreciable heat sources, there would be very little chance that there was anyone left to rescue.

For a long time there was nothing. Then the screen sprang to life, fuzzy green-illuminated forms crowding upon each other in both locations. "Good news!" Virgil whooped. "We've got live ones down there!"

He could hear the relief in his brother's voice. "Gordon, you'd better get moving," Scott said. "And be careful – it's bad out there."

"On my way." Gordon headed toward the back of the cockpit, where he would pass through into the pod and enter Thunderbird Four, International Rescue's very own yellow submarine.

"Okay, Scott," Virgil said, "I'm going to make my approach run and drop the pod."

"F.A.B., Virgil. Keep me posted."

"F.A.B." Virgil began to bring the great green Thunderbird around.

* * *

The minute Pod 4 hit the water, Gordon was pitched right into the teeth of the storm. The incredibly rough seas played catch with the heavy steel structure, tossing it from crest to crest as if it weighed nothing. Even with his usually ocean-proof stomach, he was feeling distinctly queasy within moments as huge waves tipped the pod almost on end, then immediately rolled it through nearly forty-five degrees. A couple of loose objects from inside the pod, probably tools, thwacked into the submarine's hull. It crossed Gordon's mind that he'd better get outside quickly – before something bigger broke free from its restraints.

The pod door opened easily enough, the long track extending out and down to the surface of the angry grey ocean. Getting Thunderbird Four out proved to be a lot more difficult. The insane rolling of the pod almost unseated her from her track twice – Gordon had several bad moments when he was sure she was going to go over all the way and land on her back like a beached turtle. Then one enormous swell exploded right underneath, kicking the rear of the pod so high into the air that the submarine was catapulted forward, tumbling straight down into the cliff-like canyon between the waves. She hit the boiling water hard, the wave crashing down on top of her like a piledriver. Gordon could do nothing but let her go, concentrating only on trying to stay upright – knowing from long experience that resistance to the forces of nature would only make things worse.

"Gordon," Alan's anxious voice came over the comlink. "Are you okay? That didn't look too good from up here."

"No kidding," Gordon grunted, thinking that he now understood exactly how it felt to be an ice cube in a blender. Deep enough under the surface to get the submarine back under control, he took stock of the instrument panel, wiping a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. "I'm a little banged up, but I'm okay. Better keep an eye on the pod, though. It's pretty hairy up there on the surface."

He switched on the headlights and the tracking sonar. "Okay, Thunderbird Two, I've got them," he said. "On my way."

"F.A.B., Thunderbird Four," Alan acknowledged.

Gordon brought Thunderbird Four around in the direction of the capsized yachts, trying not to think about how he was going to get the submarine back into the pod when this was all over. At the last moment he remembered to hit the remote to close up the pod. His brothers would never let him live it down if it sank behind him because he'd left the door open.

* * *

The surviving crew of the _Spirit of Nantucket_ had all lapsed into silence by now. Tally was beyond doing anything more for anyone – even herself. The water had risen again, and she couldn't feel her body any more. She floated miserably next to her brother, struggling against the soporific effects of the intense cold, listening to the wind shriek outside the hull.

"I'm sorry, Tally," Michael said, forcing out the words through frozen lips. "I don't know what I was thinking. I should never have let you come."

She managed a wry smile. "Not your fault. I twisted your arm, remember?"

Another oversized wave smashed into them, picking up the _Spirit of Nantucket_ and hurling it sideways. Tally went under the water as the boat rolled. She broke the surface again, gasping and choking. "Mike? Mike!"

She found him floating nearby, a foot under the water. "Mike!" she screamed, forcing her frozen arms to drag him up to the surface, pulling him against her, holding his face out of the water like they'd taught her when she was sixteen and working the summer as a lifeguard. He lay limply in her arms, dead weight, a nasty gash on the side of his head. He was so cold, the blood wouldn't even run. _Oh, God, Mike, please wake up_, she begged silently. _I don't want to die alone…_

And then, against all odds, a miracle happened. Above the howling wind, she heard a sound that tore a sob from her throat. _Jet engines._

_

* * *

_

Gordon had put it off long enough – he was going to have to come up now. Bracing himself, he pointed Thunderbird Four's nose toward the surface.

It was an utter nightmare. The waves were unbelievable – he tried to plough the submarine through them rather than surf their crests, but the conditions were so bad he had very little say in the matter. And as if that wasn't enough, the freezing rain blowing horizontally across the surface of the water kicked up clouds of spray that reduced visibility to almost nothing. It was a tribute to the superior construction of the capsized yachts that they had not broken up completely under the relentless pounding, he thought.

He quickly found out that maneuvering Thunderbird Four near enough to the yachts to effect a rescue, without letting the waves throw him against one of the far more fragile craft, was next to impossible. He tried over and over again, but every time he got close, he had to take swift evasive action before the submarine's sixteen-ton steel mass punched a hole though the nearest hull. "Thunderbird Two from Thunderbird Four," he said at last, frustration clear in his voice. "This isn't working. I can't get close enough. We'll have to come up with another way."

Up in the hovering Thunderbird Two, Virgil's shoulders were starting to feel the strain of the constant manual adjustments that were needed to hold the massive craft in place in these gale force winds. He glanced at Alan as Gordon's transmission came through. "Understood, Thunderbird Four. Mobile Control from Thunderbird Two."

On the bridge of the _Colin Powell_, Scott was standing at the observation windows, staring down through the sheeting rain at Thunderbird One on the deck below. This was the part of the rescue operation he hated the most. Yes, he had to be in charge, and sometimes that meant being removed from the scene of the action. He knew all the reasons, and the logical part of his brain accepted that they made sense. But he'd rather be doing anything, _anything_, other than this endless waiting.

The sound of Virgil's voice made him swing around. "Mobile Control, go ahead, Thunderbird Two," he said, crossing back to the console.

"Scott, we need a Plan B," Virgil said. "The seas are so rough that Gordon can't get close enough to the yachts without destroying them."

Time for Jeff Tracy's eldest son to make him proud. This was what Scott did better than any of them – think on his feet. "Well, guys, I can think of one way. But you're going to have to come and get me."

Back in the cockpit of Thunderbird Two, Virgil and Alan exchanged puzzled glances. "Go ahead, Mobile Control," Virgil said. "What's the plan?"

* * *

Trapped under the hull of the _Spirit of Nantucket_, Tally Somerville heard the worst sound of her life – her miracle, fading away into the distance. The jet engines were leaving.

"I'm sorry, Mike," she whispered to her brother, lying unconscious and probably dying in her arms. "It's all over now. I guess there was no way to get us out."

There was nothing to do now but wait to die.

* * *

The Hood was a master of blending into the woodwork in order to pass through any place undetected. That unparalleled ability had even been responsible for his nickname, given to him by the police and military forces of the world – none of whom knew which of the myriad of faces he presented to them was really his own. Nobody had any idea what his real name was. Sometimes he didn't even remember it himself without an effort, it had been so long since anyone had called him by it.

With the amount of excitement surrounding the arrival of International Rescue on the _Colin Powell_, it took him much longer than usual to find a good vantage point to survey the situation. Everywhere he went, there were far too many people. Then a scrap of overheard conversation triggered a stroke of genius. With no planes able to land or take off in this weather, the catapult control pod – a small windowed dome protruding above the deck, where the catapult control officer operated the machinery required to launch the carrier's fighter planes into the air – would be deserted. From there he would be able to see the entire deck, while being unobserved himself.

On his way, he allowed himself a moment to shake his head at the incredible way fate worked. He had been on board the _Colin Powell_ to steal secrets – for sale to the highest bidder, of course – having received a tip that they would be testing a new fighter jet with a totally different propulsion system while supposedly on "maneuvers" with the Chilean Navy. His mission successful, he had been making plans to depart the carrier at her next stop and return to his secret hideout in his native Malaysia, when the _Colin Powell_ had suddenly changed course without explanation. Try as he might, all the Hood had been able to find out was that the orders came from Washington, from the highest levels.

And now he understood everything. Jeff Tracy had picked up the phone.

The Hood climbed the ladder into the catapult control pod, giving his eyes time to adjust to the darkness and driving rain outside. His eyes glittered as they fell on the sleek silver arrow of Thunderbird One, a scant hundred feet away. That meant the eldest Tracy brother, Scott, must be the one on the bridge with the Captain.

The Hood hated the Tracys without reservation. He wanted nothing more than to watch Jeff Tracy and his five sons die slow, lingering, painful deaths. It was something he fantasized about endlessly, thinking of all the torturous ways he would make it happen, when he finally got his chance. They had made him look like a fool more than once, costing him time, money and even worse, lucrative alliances with others – and you didn't do that to the Hood and think you could just walk away. He also knew what would hurt them the most – exposure as the team behind the most famous secret organization in the world, International Rescue. But one thing kept him from calling the news services and unmasking them – greed. He knew that he had only just scratched the surface of the incredible machinery and resources International Rescue had stashed away, somewhere. And to keep themselves hidden the way they did, so that not even the most sophisticated satellites could pick up any traces of where they took off from and went back to, they must possess technology the rest of this world could only dream of. Technology that could make the Hood the richest man in the world. But in order for that to happen, he had to find International Rescue's base of operations and find out how they did what they did. And that meant, at least for now, he couldn't risk anyone else finding out the Tracy family's best kept secret.

Something was happening out on the deck. The Hood watched as the huge green bulk of Thunderbird Two – without its cargo pod, he noted – approached low over the deck. Virgil Tracy was having a tough time of it – even a craft of her size and weight was buffeted mercilessly by the high winds. After a couple of unsuccessful attempts, one of which swung her around almost 180 degrees, her landing jets finally fired and she settled down on to the deck safely, albeit a lot less smoothly than usual. A movement caught the Hood's eye – a yellow utility vehicle was speeding across the deck toward the newly arrived Thunderbird. In the darkness it was hard to tell, but he thought he saw… Yes! He'd seen a flash of the blue International Rescue uniform beneath the heavy coat of one of the men. He watched as Scott Tracy disappeared into Thunderbird Two's rear cockpit hatch, and the great craft's rocket thrusters fired, launching her up again into the storm.

Leaving Thunderbird One sitting all alone on the deck of the _Colin Powell_. The Hood was so stunned at his incredible good fortune, he didn't know whether to laugh or cry.


	3. Chapter Three

**

_THREE_

**

Thunderbird Two was back at the scene of the rescue in less than ten minutes. Long before that, Scott had changed into a waterproof survival suit and was immediately on the comlink to Gordon. "Thunderbird Four from Thunderbird Two. What's the situation, Gordon?

"Not good, Scott. One of the yachts – I think it's the _Snowbird_ – is almost submerged. I don't know if anyone's still alive in there – they might have already run out of air."

Scott swore under his breath. He hated being behind the eight ball like this. _Shit happens, Tracy_, he told himself, as he had done many times before, on many other rescues. _You can't foresee everything_. "Okay, Gordon, then that's the one we start with. Stand by – we might need you to submerge and keep that yacht from sinking."

"F.A.B., Thunderbird Two."

"Rescue zone directly below us now, Scott," Virgil announced. When there was no immediate response, he glanced around, seeing the worry etched on his brother's dark features. "She'll be fine. The Navy will take care of her for you."

Scott flicked a glance in his direction, making a face. Virgil knew him too well. "I know. I just hated leaving her there without one of us nearby. But I didn't see any other choice, under the circumstances."

He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. "It'll be all right," Virgil reassured him. "I'll tell John to keep on top of the _Colin Powell's_ captain. He'll make sure they keep a guard on her."

"Scott, are you ready?" Alan appeared from the depths of Thunderbird Two's cockpit, also now clad in a survival suit, over which he wore a safety harness. He tossed a second harness to Scott and began to pull on his gloves.

Scott caught the harness and stepped into it swiftly, snapping it into place. He and Alan headed for the passenger slide that would take them down to Thunderbird Two's forward hold, directly underneath the cockpit floor. "Okay, Virgil, take us down as close as you can."

"F.A.B., Scott. Good luck." Virgil heard the slide start downwards, and said a silent prayer for his brothers' safety. _For what we are about to do…_

Thunderbird Two's forward hold was a large area where she stored rescue equipment such as the grabs and the escape pod. Scott's plan involved the use of both. It was going to be difficult and very dangerous, but it was also the only way he could see to make this rescue possible. Under normal conditions, they would simply have lowered the four-man escape pod to bring people up. But with winds gusting past 150 knots, the pod would become a lethal weapon, whipping around at the end of its steel cable. They needed a way to anchor the other end, and for this they needed the grabs.

Alan climbed on to the T-bar above the massive grabs, clipping his harness to the thick reinforced steel cable. Scott reached up, securing his own harness to a metal stanchion embedded in the roof, and both men pulled on their goggles. Scott opened the panel that concealed the manual hatch controls and hit the green button, stepping back as the two sides of the hatch slid open below him.

The wind was so fierce it sucked their breath away. True to his word, Virgil had lowered Thunderbird Two until she was only a little more than a hundred feet above the capsized yachts – any lower and she ran the risk of being hit by a rogue wave. Scott pulled his headset mike around. He had to raise his voice above the shrieking gale. "Okay, Virgil, lowering the grabs!"

"F.A.B., Scott. I'll hold her steady."

Scott looked up at Alan. His brother nodded, taking a firm grip of the cable. "Let's do it!"

Scott gave him the thumbs-up and reached back to the controls. With a lurch, the cable winch began to wind out, and in seconds his brother was gone into the howling winds below the hovering Thunderbird.

* * *

Despite everything, Alan wasn't prepared for the sheer fury of the storm. The only way he could hold on was to lie prone on the T-bar at the top of the grabs, arms and legs wrapped around the heavy steel. Making it worse, as soon as the grabs were clear of the protection of Thunderbird Two, the fierce winds caught them and dragged them out at an angle. He could feel the cold even through his suit, although the thermal protection made it bearable. Despite the odds, this stood a good chance of working, he thought – provided he didn't fall off, freeze or drown.

He stared downwards at the mountainous grey seas as he descended, the bobbing hulls of the two yachts coming closer and closer. He spotted Thunderbird Four, waiting about ten yards away from them. He wondered if Gordon could see him, and waved anyway – grinning as Thunderbird Four's headlights blinked off and on again in acknowledgement. The submarine was moving now, taking up position beside what was obviously the sinking _Snowbird, _guiding them in.

Alan glanced upward toward the Thunderbird's open hatch. He couldn't see Scott, but he knew his brother was directing the lowering of the winch with every ounce of skill he possessed, calling out continuous, minute course adjustments to Virgil in the cockpit. Not for the first time, Alan was grateful for the almost telepathic relationship between his two eldest brothers – they really were something to behold when they were working as a team like this. He felt the wind shift as Thunderbird Two came slowly about, positioning the grabs until they were directly above the _Snowbird_.

_Okay, Alan, showtime._ With an effort that made the muscles in his arms and legs crack with strain, Alan pulled himself to an upright position on top of the grabs. Ten feet. Nine. Eight. Seven. "Okay, Scott, open her up!" he shouted into his headset mike.

The grabs spread out below him, like an immense robot hand opening its fingers. Four. Three. Two. _Thunk_. The metal fingers slid down either side of the yacht's white hull. "Now, Scott!"

The grabs clamped down. For a second it looked good. Then Alan saw the hull begin to split. "Too much!" he yelled. "She's breaking up!"

The grabs relaxed their grip just a little. Alan waited, holding his breath – then let it out again in a rush as he saw it was going to work. She was holding steady, and the hull wasn't splitting any further. "F.A.B., Scott – good job!"

Now he just had to hang on and wait.

* * *

Up in Thunderbird Two's hold, Scott was putting phase two of his plan into operation. Working swiftly, he cannibalized several different pieces of equipment to make one jury-rigged rescue device. Dragging the suspended escape pod over to the hatch, he attached a set of powerful robot winches on to one side, clamping them in turn over the heavy steel cable attached to the grabs. This would enable him to use a remote to guide the pod down to the Snowbird and back up again to the safety of Thunderbird Two. The pod would retain its own secondary cable attached to the roof, as a fail-safe. Even though it meant operating both sets of winches at the same time, a nightmare of coordination under any circumstances, it was the only way to be sure their backup systems were adequate for the job. It wouldn't do any good to get those people out of the capsized yacht, only to lose them because of a winch failure.

Scott grabbed harnesses and cutting gear and threw them into the pod, closing its door again tightly behind them. He tested the remote by signaling the pod to climb down the cable three feet, then back up again. Perfect. "Okay, Virgil, here we go. Hold her as steady as you can."

"F.A.B., Scott."

Scott hit the switch and the pod started the long descent towards the yacht below. He just hoped they still had enough time to get those people out.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Alan had cut through the hull of the _Snowbird_ and was hauling out survivors. Most of the crew were in bad shape, either from injuries or hypothermia or both, and just getting some of them into the pod was a slow, hideously difficult job. He could have done without the impatient voice of his brother in his ear, too – even though he knew that Scott's brusque manner in an emergency situation was only his way of masking very real concern. "I'm moving as fast as I can, Scott," he said into his headset mike for the fourth time. "There's only one of me."

"I know, Alan…I know." Scott stared down at the rescue in progress, frustrated at his inability to help his brother. But somebody had to get the pod back up into Thunderbird Two, and with Virgil flying the ship, that only left him. If it broke down at the top of the cable and there was nobody there to get the people out safely…

The pod was on its way up now with its first load of evacuees. It climbed slowly up the cable, the robot winches performing their duty perfectly. Not for the first time, Scott silently blessed the unparalleled, seemingly inexhaustible inventive talents of the man who was responsible for every one of the fantastic engineering marvels in the International Rescue arsenal. The man he and the rest of the Tracy family called Brains.

The pod arrived at the top and Scott caught it, swinging it over beside the open hatch. Four shivering people tumbled out, three men and one woman. Scott shepherded them quickly into a corner where he had stacked a pile of blankets and supplies. "Is anyone in urgent need of medical attention?" he asked.

They shook their heads. "Okay," he nodded, handing out blankets. "There's food and hot drinks and emergency medical supplies here. Help yourself to whatever you need, and just try to keep warm while we get to the others."

And then the pod was on its way back down for the second run.

Dawn was finally breaking above the horizon as the pod made its last run up for the crew of the _Snowbird_. It was funny, Scott thought, that although the storm had not lessened very much in severity, and not much light was really visible through the heavy clouds, somehow the coming of day always made a situation seem less desperate. "Okay, Alan," he said into his headset mike. "Get ready – I'm going to release the grabs."

"F.A.B., Scott." Alan clambered back up on to the t-bar atop the grabs, getting ready for the transfer to the remaining yacht, the _Spirit of Nantucket_. "Ready," he said at last, breathing hard.

"Okay, Alan. Virgil?"

"Ready when you are, Scott."

"F.A.B." Scott gazed down through the open hatch toward the water. "Releasing grabs…now!"

He could see Alan clinging on tightly as the great metal fingers opened up, letting go their hold of the _Snowbird_. "Virgil, left two degrees."

Thunderbird Two shifted her heading slightly. Trailing behind her now, just brushing the water's surface, the grabs swung over in the direction of the second yacht. _Easy does it…Not too fast…_

"Alan!" Scott's stomach lurched as he heard Virgil's frantic shout from the cockpit. "Look out for that wave!"

They stared in horror as a rogue swell sixty feet high crashed into the free-floating grabs, hurling them sideways toward the _Spirit of Nantucket_. Ripped away from his grip on the t-bar, Alan slipped to the end of his harness tether, right between the heavy steel fingers. "Pull him up, Scott!" Virgil yelled. "Get him out of there!"

But there wasn't enough time. Scott had shoved the winch lever hard over the second he heard Virgil's first warning, but the motor couldn't move fast enough to pull Alan clear of the _Spirit of Nantucket_. They both heard the sickening crunch and their brother's cry of pain as the grabs slammed him into the yacht's capsized hull. "Alan!" Scott shouted. "Alan, can you hear me? _Alan!_"

Nothing. "Gordon, can you see him?" Virgil asked frantically. "Is he…"

_Don't say it, Virgil, please…_ Scott begged silently. It was his own private superstition – if you never said the word out loud, it wouldn't come true.

"I…I think he's…" Gordon's voice sounded shaken. "He's not moving, but...

Then Scott heard it – a faint groan. "Alan! Alan, can you hear me?"

But his brother wasn't coherent. All Scott could hear now was harsh breathing. "Get him up here _now_, Scott," Virgil said, in a tone that didn't encourage any discussion.

"I don't know how bad he's hurt, Virg. I've got to go and get him."

"Scott!" But the protest fell on deaf ears. Scott was already rappelling down the steel cable towards his youngest brother.

* * *

When the side of the hull split open directly above her, the splintering crash jerked Tally up out of the semi-conscious state she'd slipped into a half-hour before. This is it, she thought at first. This is how it ends. She stared upwards at the stormy sky, bracing herself for the wave that would flood the interior of the crippled yacht and send them all to watery oblivion. She would try not to hold her breath. She'd heard it was worse if you tried to hold your breath.

Then she realized with a start that she could hear the sound of engines again, above them. _They came back for us…_

She dragged Michael's limp form over to the only other remotely conscious crew member, Mitch Robertson. "Mitch, they're here to get us! They're here!"

Mitch stared at her through glassy, uncomprehending eyes. "Mitch," she said urgently, "Can you hold Mike for me? I've got to let them know we're alive in here!"

At last, she saw a spark in his eyes. He managed a nod, and she wedged Mike into his arms. "Hold on to him," she said. "Keep his head above the water. I'll be right back."

Forcing her frozen limbs into action, she swam back to the hole in the ship's hull. Now if she could only get to the opening…

A swell hit the ship and rolled it sideways. As the _Spirit of Nantucket_ righted herself again, the water rushing back gave her the boost she needed to catch hold of the splintered hull material at the edge of the hole. Ignoring the blood, mostly unable to feel the damage she was doing to her hands anyway, she hauled herself up until she could see through the opening.

She wasn't prepared for what she saw. Hovering above them was an enormous green aircraft of a type she had never seen before, trailing a long steel cable down toward the yacht. Following the cable down, she discovered what had caused the gaping hole. Some kind of immense steel grabbing device was caught on the wreckage of the yacht's hull, and there was a man pinned between them, obviously hurt.

Tally forced herself up higher, getting first one knee on to the edge of the opening, then slowly and painfully dragging herself to her feet. Pushing the stabbing pain to the back of her mind, she managed to make it across the opening to the side of the injured man, holding on to the grabs for support. He was breathing in shallow gasps. "Can you hear me?" she shouted over the wind.

"Why…does everyone…keep asking…that…?" Alan managed between short, panting breaths. "I didn't…get hit…in the ears…"

Tally grinned. This one would be all right – he was a fighter. "Where are you hurt?" she asked.

"I think…my ribs…are broken…" he grunted. "Can't…breathe…"

He broke off with a gasp as the hull moved, sending waves of crippling pain through his body. Tally grabbed his hand in both her own, overcome with the need to help this man who had risked so much for her and her friends. "It's going to be all right," she said firmly. "You hear me? You're going to be all right."

Alan managed a smile, eyes closing as he slid into unconsciousness. _No_, Tally thought angrily. _It isn't fair…_ "Who are you?" she demanded out loud.

"International Rescue, ma'am." Tally jumped as another man in a survival suit slid into view down the steel cable attached to the grabs.

_International Rescue?_ Tally was stunned. She'd heard about this legendary organization – everybody had. But she'd never seen them in action. They almost seemed more legend than reality, and she'd often wondered if the stories people told about them were true...that they would come out of nowhere, no matter what the risk, and save people who had no other hope of survival...only to disappear again like ghosts before anyone could learn who they were or where they came from.

These two were awfully solid for ghosts, she thought.

Before she could ask him any questions, though, the newcomer had turned his attention to the injured man. "Alan," he said urgently. "Alan!"

"I talked to him a moment ago, before he passed out," Tally offered, knowing he would need the information. "He said he thought his ribs were broken. He was having trouble breathing."

She was rewarded with a quick, appraising glance. "Thanks. How many of you are in there?"

"We had a crew of eleven, but two are…" She couldn't say the word, but he seemed to understand, nodding.

He struggled to free the grabs from where they were caught on the shattered hull. She helped him, and together they pulled the metal fingers clear. "I have to get him up to the ship," he said. "Then I'll be back down for you. Can you hang on?"

"Yes," she said. "We can hang on."

She thought she saw him smile. Then he glanced upward at the great craft hovering above them. "Okay, Virgil, pull us up," he said. "And easy does it."

"F.A.B., Scott." She was close enough to him to hear the radio response.

The winch started up and the grabs rose into the air, taking the two men with them. "Don't worry," the one called Scott shouted to her as he went. "I'll be back."

Tally believed him. She clung to the side of the opening, shivering in the freezing rain, watching them until they disappeared up through the opening in the bottom of the ship.

* * *

When she looked back on it afterward, Tally had trouble remembering all the details of what followed. True to his word, Scott had come back down to the _Spirit of Nantucket_ in just a few minutes, and the crew were winched one by one aboard the rescue craft, which she now knew as Thunderbird Two. She insisted on staying down with the crippled yacht until the last, making sure everyone else was off before she would finally allow Scott to harness her to the cable. He wrapped his arms securely around her from behind and told the one called Virgil to pull them up.

After the incredible strain of the past twelve hours, she felt a strange calm seep through her as the hoist lifted them high up into the air. The shattered hull of the _Spirit of Nantucket_ below her seemed remote and unfamiliar now, as if this had all happened to someone else. "Are you okay?" Scott shouted in her ear. She nodded her head yes. Everything was going to be okay now. She could even see, far away on the horizon, the signs of the storm finally clearing.

Then they were up inside the forward hold of the vast ship, and Scott was swinging them clear of the hatch. He unclipped their harnesses and turned, doing something on a panel against the wall. The hatch slid closed, leaving the wind and rain behind.

Tally walked unsteadily over toward the little group of survivors, muscles aching with exhaustion, a little unsteady on firm ground after being out on that heaving sea for so long. Someone put a blanket around her shoulders, someone else pressed a plastic cup of hot liquid into her hand. Hot coffee. God, it tasted good.

She spotted her brother, lying on an inflatable pallet, his headwound dressed. One of the other survivors was attending to him, a first aid kit open beside him. She didn't see the injured International Rescue man anywhere.

She glanced back over at Scott, who had taken off the hood of his survival suit, revealing tousled dark brown hair. He was taller than she had realized, at least six-two, and even in her exhausted state she couldn't help noticing that he was very good-looking. She smiled wryly – it was a phenomenon she'd seen before, in other areas of the rescue business. For some reason, there seemed to be a high concentration of handsome men in the ranks of firemen and paramedics.

Scott saw her looking at him and crossed the hold toward her. "I have to go up to the cockpit now," he said. "We have to pick up our submarine before we take you to the aircraft carrier."

She smiled at his tone. This man had just saved their lives, and now he was apologizing for having to leave them alone for a few minutes. "Don't worry," she said reassuringly. "Go and do what you need to do."

"It might get a little bumpy," he said. "The sea's still pretty rough down there."

"I'll warn them," she said. "We'll be fine, Scott."

For a moment she wondered if the use of his name had been a mistake – there was a brief narrowing of his cobalt blue eyes. "How is your friend?" she said, pushing past it. "Is he going to be all right?"

She saw him relax slightly. "Yes, I think so. And thank you, by the way. Knowing what his injuries were before he passed out was very important to transporting him safely up here."

She nodded. "It was the least I could do. After all, he got hurt trying to get to us."

He started to move away, then hesitated, half-turning back toward her. "I just want you to know…you handled yourself very well down there."

The corners of her mouth twitched. "You got any openings?"

She was rewarded with the briefest flash of a grin. Then he was gone, striding across the hold to an elevator at the far side. "Get someone to look at those hands," he called, before the doors closed behind him.

Surprised, she looked down, remembering that the palms of her hands were torn and bloody from the shattered hull of the _Spirit of Nantucket_. She hadn't realized that he'd noticed.

As Scott had promised, the maneuvers to pick up the pod were rough and bumpy – but they were prepared for it and protected the injured, and everyone came through fine. On the short ride to the _Colin Powell_, Tally busied herself checking on the other survivors, helping to treat the wounded. Before she knew it, they had landed on the carrier and US Navy personnel with utility vehicles and stretchers were helping her and the others out of the Thunderbird – which now had a solid midsection, she noted. As she climbed into one of the vehicles, she glanced across the deck and saw another craft that clearly wasn't US Navy – a silvery rocket ship with TB1 painted on its tail section. _Thunderbird One_, she thought.

She looked for Scott as the Navy organized them for transport, but she didn't see him again. The International Rescue man who came down into the hold to organize their departure was one she hadn't seen before, younger than Scott, with red-gold hair and eyes the color of amber. She didn't get a chance to speak to him before she left Thunderbird Two, and even as the utility vehicle that carried her and her brother sped away across the runway of the carrier, she heard the ear-splitting roar of rocket engines. She turned just in time to see an amazing sight – the two Thunderbird craft igniting their horizontal jets and lifting straight up, together, off the deck of the _Colin Powell_.

She lifted her hand in a wave, not knowing if they could see her. She watched as Thunderbirds One and Two turned in the air in perfect unison, then, with a twin blast of their powerful rear thrusters, disappeared into the morning sky.

As soon as Tally and her escorts reached the aircraft carrier's infirmary and she was sure her brother was being taken care of, she asked to be shown the nearest bank of satellite phones. Other survivors with similar ideas had begun to crowd around, but she managed to find a free phone, lifting one of the receivers and dialled a number she knew by heart. A man answered after the third ring. "Joss Kowalski."

"Joss, it's Tally."

"Oh, my God, Tally – we've been watching the news! We thought you were all dead for sure!"

"Not quite. There were a few bad moments there, but get this – International Rescue showed up and got us out! They took us to an aircraft carrier – the _Colin Powell_. Mike's got some kind of head injury – the medics are looking at him now. I'll fill you in on all the details later."

"International Rescue!" he said, obviously impressed. "Well, you got what you wanted. This is going to be one hell of a story. I don't see how Mason can keep you off the vidscreen now."

"Forget the story," Tally said impatiently.

"Forget the story?" he sounded incredulous. "Tally, you and your brother almost _died_ out there – along with thirty other people! The whole world was watching, for God's sake!"

Tally smiled. She could barely contain her excitement. "Oh, Joss, trust me – the piece I have in mind is so much bigger than one little boat race disaster. We're talking a Peabody and a whole shelf of Emmys."

"I hate when you talk crazy," he said. "What could possibly be bigger than this?"

"You'll see, Joss. You'll see. Oh, and Joss…be a pal and call my mother, will you?" And with that she hung up, leaving him spluttering at a dial tone as she went back to see how Michael was doing.


	4. Chapter Four

**

_FOUR_

**

Twenty minutes into Thunderbird Two's flight home, Alan started to cough up blood. Gordon rushed back to his brother's side in the sleeping quarters as soon as he heard the painful, racking sound come over the monitor. He didn't like what he found. Alan was barely conscious and deathly pale, the skin under his eyes dark and bruised looking, and he was fighting for every labored, wheezing breath. Gordon made his brother look at him. "Alan, it's okay, we've got you," he said, trying to keep his voice level and reassuring. "We're going to get you to a hospital."

Alan managed a nod, but there was the beginning of panic in his eyes as he coughed again, bright red foam spraying from his mouth. Saying a silent prayer of thanks for the EMS training his father had insisted they all keep up, Gordon grabbed the blood pressure collar and wrapped it round Alan's arm. "Virgil, we've got trouble."

Virgil wasted no time after he heard what his brother had to say. "International Rescue from Thunderbird Two. Request immediate steer to hospital facilities."

His father's voice was in his ears immediately. "Virgil, what is it? What's happened?"

"It's Alan, father. He's coughing up blood and Gordon thinks his lung may be punctured."

Virgil could hear a woman's gasp – and realized too late that Tin-Tin must be standing with his father listening to this transmission. He swore softly under this breath – he hadn't wanted her to find out about Alan's injuries like this.

"It'll be all right, Tin-Tin," he said, trying to believe it himself. "Gordon's back there looking after him. We just need to get him to a hospital so they can fix him up."

"Okay, Thunderbird Two," Jeff's voice again. "Reroute immediately to Sydney. I'll arrange for an ambulance with police escort to meet you at the airport, and Penny can fly in from Bonga Bonga to meet Alan at the hospital. Just make sure you get him out of his uniform. Dr. Grant just landed – Tin-Tin and I will bring her with us in the jet. We'll be there as soon as we can."

Virgil was already punching instructions into the navigation computer. The great green Thunderbird began to bank to the right. "F.A.B., father. But what about Thunderbird Two?"

"Take her to Bonga Bonga – there's plenty of room for you to hide her there. I'll have Scott meet you, and the two of you can rendezvous with us at the hospital. Penny'll arrange for a helijet for you."

"Virgil," Gordon said, "His heart rate is rising and his B.P. is 90 over 70. Poor breath sounds on the left side."

"Sounds like a tension pneumo. He needs needle decompression now."

"I know," Gordon said grimly. "Prepping a chest tube."

Moving fast, he grabbed a chest tube and betadine swabs. Swiftly cutting open the side of Alan's uniform, he swabbed the skin between his ribs and tore open the bag that contained the tube. _Don't think about it_, he told himself, feeling the sweat start on his palms. _Just do it_.

"I'm sorry, Alan," he said. "This is really going to hurt."

Alan was too far gone to answer, eyes closed, skin now tinged blue from lack of oxygen. His own pulse racing, Gordon took a deep breath and began to insert the chest tube. It was much tougher than he had remembered from his training. Hard as he pushed, it seemed like the damn thing just wouldn't go in.

Alan groaned, his arm flailing toward this new source of agony – trying to push it away. "Easy," Gordon said, biting his own lip with concentration, knowing from past personal experience exactly how bad it was to be on the receiving end of this. "It's gonna be okay…"

Then, at last, a popping feeling – and a rush of air through the tube. Gordon exhaled with relief. Somewhere in the process, Alan had passed out again, but he was breathing easier now.

"Gordon, what's going on?" Virgil demanded.

"I'm in," Gordon said. "He's out of danger for right now. Just get us to that hospital."

"Don't worry," Virgil said. "Dad, you'll have Scott meet us there?"

"Yes, son. Let's get him on the line – he should know what's going on. Thunderbird One from Base."

They all listened to the crackling of static for two or three seconds. Jeff tried again. "Thunderbird One from Base. Come in, Thunderbird One, over."

No answer. "It could be the storm, father," Virgil suggested. "We had trouble with direct communication earlier. Maybe it's worse where he is."

"You could be right. John, can you raise him for us?"

"No problem. Thunderbird One from Thunderbird Five, are you receiving me? Over."

But there was still no response. Virgil felt something stir uneasily in the pit of his stomach. "Let me try, father. Thunderbird One from Thunderbird Two. Can you hear me, Scott?"

Once again, there was nothing but the soft hiss of static in their ears. "John," Jeff said, "What's his location?"

There was a brief pause, then John came back, sounding confused. "I don't know, father. He's…gone."

"What do you mean, gone?" It came out more sharply than Jeff intended.

"That's exactly what I mean, father. There's no signal from Thunderbird One's GPS. I have no idea where he is."

It took a few seconds for them all to digest this information. Then Virgil said: "Run a check on his last known position, John. I'll take Thunderbird Two and…"

"You'll do no such thing, Virgil," his father broke in. "You have to get Alan to the hospital in Sydney. Don't worry – we'll find Scott."

Realizing there was no choice, Virgil reluctantly acquiesced. But he didn't like it.

* * *

Considering his lack of sleep the night before, Scott was weary to the bone by the time Thunderbirds One and Two lifted off together from the deck of the _Colin Powell._ "Base from Thunderbird One. Mission accomplished. We're coming home."

"F.A.B., Thunderbird One. How is Alan?"

Virgil chimed in from Thunderbird Two. "We've stabilized his ribs – we don't think anything else is broken. He's in a lot of pain, but we can't give him much in the way of painkillers in case they compromise his breathing."

"Right," his father said. "I'll relay that to Dr. Grant – she'll be here by the time you get back. She'll take a look at him and tell us what she thinks. Sounds like he'll be out of action for a while, in any case."

"Yeah," Scott said. "But he did a first class job out there today, dad."

"Of course he did, son. He takes after his brothers."

Scott smiled. "See you when we get home. Thunderbird One out."

He flexed his aching shoulders and settled in for the flight home, glad that he flew a fast ship. His clothes were stiff with dried saltwater and he smelled like day-old fish. He desperately needed a long, hot shower, followed by bed for about twelve hours. _Well, you got your wish_, he thought. _You'll sleep like the dead tonight_.

His tired mind drifted back over the rescue, and he found himself thinking about the girl who had been such a help to him during the last part, after Alan was injured and he was left to finish by himself. She'd been a real trouper, getting right in there with him, pushing and pulling and dragging her fellow crew-members to the gap in the stricken yacht's hull so he could haul them out and winch them to safety. She had refused to leave, too, until everyone else was clear. He wished he ran into people like her at every rescue site – it would make his job a lot easier.

It suddenly registered on him that she was pretty, too. He wondered what her name was.

A shadow fell across him from behind. Scott had no chance to react – freezing as something hard and cold dug painfully into the back of his neck. "Don't move. I will kill you, I promise you."

_Something about that voice… _Scott's mind was racing. "Who are you?" he demanded. "How the hell did you get in here?"

"Never mind who I am. Just do exactly as I tell you. Now reach over, very slowly, and turn off your GPS."

As if for emphasis, the gun barrel dug harder into his neck muscle, making him wince involuntarily. "Now look," Scott started, playing for time. "If it's money you're after, my organization will…"

"I don't want your father's money, Tracy!" the man behind him snapped. "Now turn off your GPS before I run out of patience!"

Memory clicked into place finally, a chill running down Scott's spine as he realized who his hijacker must be. This was going to be bad.

Not seeing any immediate way out of the situation, he reached over obediently and flipped the switch. The display on the GPS went dark.

"Good, Tracy. Now you're listening to reason. Keep doing that, and you might also keep your head attached to your shoulders."

"What do you want, Hood?" Scott said slowly. "I'm not going to tell you anything. You must know that."

The Hood chuckled. It wasn't a pleasant sound. "You won't have to, Tracy. When your father finds out I have his precious eldest son, not to mention one of his Thunderbirds, he'll give me whatever I want."

"I think you're underestimating my father," Scott said quietly. But he knew the man behind him was right. Nothing would be worth the loss of one of his sons to Jeff Tracy, not even if it meant risking the exposure of their entire organization.

"We'll see," the Hood grated. "Now I want you to turn right ten degrees and take a heading of…"

Up until that moment, Scott's mind had been racing a mile a minute, trying to come up with a plan to get himself out of this. A detached kind of calm descended over him now as he made his decision. "No," he said, simply.

The Hood broke off in mid sentence. "What did you say?"

"I said no," Scott repeated. "I'm not going to let you use me to hurt my family."

"You fool!" the Hood spat, grabbing a handful of Scott's hair and yanking his head back brutally. He dug the barrel of the gun into the pilot's throat. "I will blow your stupid head off!"

"No, you won't," Scott managed to gasp out. "If you kill me, you have nothing to bargain with. And you don't know how to fly Thunderbird One, let alone land her in one piece."

The Hood roared in fury and lashed out, hitting Scott hard across the face. Scott tried to go with the blow to lessen the damage, tasting blood on the inside of his mouth. "You'll have to do better than that," he grunted, bracing himself for the follow-up he was sure would come.

The Hood moved the gun barrel, jamming it against Scott's right shoulder blade. "This pistol is loaded with hollow point ammunition, Tracy. When I pull this trigger, it will take them a very long time to put what's left of your shoulder back together. Let's see how many people you will be able to rescue without your right arm.

He'd had a good run, Scott thought. If he was going go anyway, he'd sure as hell take this bastard with him. Without warning he shoved the control levers all the way forward, throwing Thunderbird One into a steep dive. Warning lights spattered red at his eyes. "Go ahead, you son of a bitch, shoot me," he ground out through his teeth. "Of course, then I won't be able to pull us out of this dive."

Thrown off balance as the deck suddenly became a steep slope, the Hood staggered sideways, grabbing at the wall struts to keep himself from falling. Sheer fury boiled up inside him, but he knew there was nothing he could do, unless he planned on committing suicide. Thunderbird One was hurtling straight down toward the Pacific Ocean in an insane game of chicken, and Scott Tracy was ready to take her all the way rather than hand her over to his family's arch-enemy.

Scott stared at the altimeter, numbers racing backwards at a crazy speed. "We've got about sixty seconds left before we hit! What's it going to be, Hood?"

There was no answer. Something moved beside him and the sudden rush of wind made him twist around. He saw something he hadn't expected – the Hood had strapped on one of the jetpacks from the equipment locker, and opened the hatch. "Oh, no you don't," Scott shouted, lunging sideways to grab the other man before he could bail out.

The Hood fought him off, clubbing him savagely with the butt of the Magnum. Scott staggered back, momentarily dazed. It was enough for the Hood to swing around and dive head first through the open hatch.

Collision alarms began to blare. Dizzy and nauseous from the blow, Scott fought his way back to the pilot's seat. Twelve hundred feet. Eleven hundred. _Got to get her leveled out_… He throttled back the thrusters as far as he could without losing all maneuverability, and pulled hard on the control levers. But Thunderbird One had the bit squarely between her teeth now, her screaming death dive generating g-forces so strong that he couldn't shift the levers even an inch. Eight hundred feet. Seven hundred. Six hundred. He wrapped his arms around the levers and hauled back with everything he had, feet braced, shoulders cracking from the strain. _Come on, baby, come on_… It was like trying to lift a Mack truck. Four hundred. Three hundred. And then, with excruciating slowness, shuddering through her entire frame, the silver Thunderbird finally began to level off.

It was too late. She wasn't going to make it. At the last moment Scott realized the hatch was still open. He kicked out at the hatch control, watching it slide shut with a scant two seconds to spare.

And then there was no more time. Thunderbird One hit the water, her angle of impact throwing her back into the air like a one hundred forty ton flying fish. She smashed down again with tremendous force, hydroplaning across the surface with the speed of a runaway freight train. Trailing chunks of wing and tail section in her wake, she finally slithered to a steaming, shuddering halt.

The last thing Scott remembered was something hitting him very, very hard. Everything after that was black.

* * *

The Tracy jet was fifteen minutes into the flight to Sydney when the comlink signal began to flash. Jeff flipped the switch. "Jeff Tracy."

"Dad, it's John." Mindful of his father's extra passenger, Dr. Elizabeth Grant, John had disabled the video link. He kept his words as cryptic as he could while still getting the message across. "I have news about the…lost package."

Jeff could feel Tin-Tin's eyes on him. He said a silent prayer for good news before he answered. "Go ahead, John."

John's voice was very quiet. "It's, uh, been traced to a location two hundred miles south of the Solomon Islands. Package code is ERB.

"Oh, Mr. Tracy," Tin-Tin whispered, her eyes filling with tears. They were both only too well aware that ERB was an acronym for one of Brains' inventions, the Emergency Recovery Beacon. Designed as an automatic fail-safe, it only began transmitting in the event of one of the Thunderbird craft going down. John was trying to tell them that their worst fears had come true – for reasons unknown, Thunderbird One had crashed into the ocean.

Jeff had to clear his throat a couple of times before he could trust his voice to sound normal. "Well, John, at least we know where...the package is. Tell Virgil right away, will you? He'll know what to do."

"Will do, father." Thankfully, the unnatural conversation ended, and Jeff was left alone to try to deal with the fact that the bottom had just dropped out from under his world. Surely there could be nothing more dreadful for a parent than a moment like this. _Oh, God, Scott…_

"Everything all right, Jeff?" Dr. Grant, perceptive as always, leaned forward in her seat. Tin-Tin turned her head away to conceal her wet eyes, pretending to be very interested in the view from her window.

"Oh, yes, I'm sure it will be," Jeff congratulated himself on the even tone of voice he managed to produce. "We lost an important…package, this morning. But it seems like we've located it now."

"Well, I hope it's in one piece," she smiled.

He didn't trust himself to respond to that one.

* * *

"Maybe he's okay," Gordon said, determinedly trying to look on the bright side. "Maybe he had a malfunction and he had to ditch."

"After turning off his GPS?" Virgil asked pointedly. "And if he was having problems, why didn't he tell us?"

Gordon shook his head. "I don't know."

"Okay," Virgil said, getting a hold of himself. "This is what we're going to do. Get on the radio to the hospital. Tell them we need their parking lot, and we're coming in hot. We don't have time to go to the airport – we've got to get to Scott as soon as possible. Anything could be happening out there."

"But, Virg, what if they can't clear the parking lot in time? That's a lot of cars…"

"Well, tell them if they don't, they'll have one hell of a barbecue on their hands when this baby comes down on top of them."

Gordon knew better than to argue with his brother when he got that look on his face. When they were kids, Scott might have been the irresistible force, but Virgil was the immovable object. Not much had changed in that department.

He sighed and opened the comlink to the hospital.

* * *

Quite a crowd had gathered at the front entrance to the hospital by the time Thunderbird Two's immense form appeared in the sky. Virgil noted with satisfaction that the staff had taken their request seriously – there wasn't a vehicle in the entire parking lot directly in front of the main building. "See, Gordo, that's what happens when you don't take no for an answer."

Gordon ignored him. He headed back to the sleeping quarters to prepare Alan for transport.

People stared and pointed as Thunderbird Two swung in low over the hospital building and fired her landing jets, settling to the tarmac in a roar of smoke and flame. Even before they could get the hatch open, an ER team with a gurney was running out to meet them, flanked by armed hospital security. Gordon forced himself to let the experts take over, watching anxiously as they transferred Alan to the gurney and started their emergency workup. "Take good care of him."

One of the doctors looked up at him and smiled. "Don't worry, mate. Leave it to us."

Gordon realized he was still hanging on to the gurney. He stepped back reluctantly, and the ER team was gone, racing back across the parking lot toward the hospital. Seriously torn, Gordon stood there for a moment. Then he glanced up at Thunderbird Two's cockpit shields, sixty feet above him, knowing Virgil was watching the departure of his youngest brother and feeling exactly the same. They had to go, he thought. They didn't have any choice. Alan was in good hands now, but Scott…

_He'll be all right,_ Gordon told himself firmly as he ran back into the Thunderbird and closed the hatch. _He has to be_.


	5. Chapter Five

**

_FIVE_

**

_He was lost. He was looking for something, something urgent and important – but somehow he'd taken a wrong turn, and he was beginning to panic… He didn't know where he was, all these white corridors looked the same, and he had been running forever… What was he trying to find? He couldn't remember, try as he might… There were people everywhere, but all they did was stare at him as he ran past, horrified expressions on their faces._

Then a door appeared in front of him. The sight of it stopped him dead in his tracks. He stood there, looking at it, heart pounding in sudden dread. He didn't want to go through that door. A weird light shone through the cracks around it, and he knew in his gut that something terrible was waiting for him on the other side. But it was no use. Like a condemned man on the walk to his execution, he started slowly toward it, reaching out to push it open. When he saw his hands he realized with a shock that they belonged to a young boy – and they were covered in blood.

"Scott. Scott, can you hear me?"

There was a face floating over him. Defying his feeble attempts to focus, it lurched, slipped sideways, then swam back again. He tried to raise his head to get a better look, and instantly regretted it. The pain was excruciating, like someone driving a metal spike through his skull.

"It's okay, Scott. Just take your time."

He knew that voice. If he could just remember…

"Gordon," he croaked.

"Yeah, it's me. Welcome back to the land of the living."

Oh, God, he was going to vomit. It must have been obvious, because he felt hands lifting him up, supporting him while he threw up violently. He could hear Gordon's voice talking to him, reassuring him, telling him to take it easy. Then the blackness flooded back in and he didn't remember anything else.

Some time later, he gradually became aware of his surroundings again. The sounds came first – the low-frequency throb of engines. He opened his eyes slowly, struggling to focus. Every muscle in his body was bruised and battered, as if he'd been run over by a freight train. Where…

And then, all in a rush, memory returned. He struggled to sit up. "Gordon, Thunderbird One's in the water! I've got to – "

He broke off, his surroundings doing a sharp revolve. He shut his eyes against the dizziness and the return of nausea.

"You've got to take it easy, Scott." It was Virgil's voice. "You've had a bad crack on the head and you've probably got a concussion."

"Virgil…?" Scott opened his eyes again, squinting against the light. All of a sudden he knew where he was – the sleeping quarters of Thunderbird Two. "How in hell did I…"

"John picked up your ERB after you ditched," Virgil explained. "We took Alan to the hospital in Sydney and then we came looking for you."

"Alan's in the hospital?" This was news to Scott.

"Yeah, it was a bit more serious that we thought – Gordon thinks his lung is punctured. He started coughing up blood on the way home, so we rerouted. Dad and Tin-Tin are on their way right now." He smiled at Scott's stricken expression. "He's going to be okay, Scott. Don't worry. And no, it wasn't your fault."

Scott made a face. Then: "Virg…what about Thunderbird One? Is she…?"

Virgil shook his head. "You got lucky. Brains' flotation collars worked like a charm. I dropped the pod and Gordon towed you to a nearby island with Thunderbird Four. He got you out and we hoisted you aboard. He's got her under a camo net and he'll wait with her until Brains arrives with the equipment."

"How bad…?"

"Gordon checked her out. He said he thinks it's mostly wing and tail section damage – no major structural cracks that he could see. Brains and Tin-Tin will have her back in the air in no time." Virgil handed him a cup of water. "Here, drink some of this."

Scott tried to smile. Even his face hurt. "Got any aspirin?"

Virgil went to get the first aid kit. He came back, handing Scott a packet of analgesics. "I've got to get back to the cockpit. Think you're up to moving?"

"I think so." Scott slowly swung his legs out from the bunk and tried to stand. The dizziness returned momentarily and he weaved, grateful for Virgil's steadying arm. "Whoa. Is this floor level?"

Virgil grinned. They moved slowly to the cockpit together. "While we're getting you to the hospital," Virgil said, "You want to tell me what the hell happened to you? One minute you're on your way home, and the next thing we know your GPS is off and you're not answering the radio."

Scott slid gratefully into one of Thunderbird Two's passenger seats and filled his brother in on the whole story of his hijack and subsequent crash into the ocean. Glancing across his flight instruments as he listened, Virgil's expression grew darker with every sentence. "Scott, you could have killed yourself with a stunt like that. What were you thinking?"

Scott knew his brother well enough to hear the fear under his angry words. "I was dead anyway, if I didn't try something," he said, quietly. "I'm not prone to unprovoked suicide attempts, Virg – you know that."

Virgil couldn't help it – his mouth twitched suddenly as an incongruous thought struck him. "Well, there was that time in Paris, at the top of the Eiffel Tower," he said.

Scott had to smile at the memory. "Unfair comparison," he said. "I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. I was drunk."

"Uh-uh. You were very, very drunk."

"Yeah, but she was very, very pretty."

Virgil grinned broadly. "Yes, she was."

Scott sighed. "And she went home with the _gendarme_ who arrested us."

"Yeah," Virgil sighed with him. He saw Scott knead at his aching head with his fingertips, trying to ease the relentless throbbing. It brought his mind back to the matter at hand. "We've got to find a way to stop this guy, Scott," he said. "We've had too many close calls. We might not be so lucky the next time."

Scott looked up at him. "No argument there. We'll talk to dad about it when we get to the hospital." He got to his feet slowly, still feeling like hell, but at least able to maintain his balance fairly well now. "I'm going to get cleaned up, and if I were you, I'd think about doing the same thing. We both smell like last Friday's catch of the day."

Despite himself, Virgil had to smile.

* * *

When Jeff Tracy returned to the observation window outside the recovery room, the sharp worry lines that had been etched so deeply into his face had softened. Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward looked around as he approached, noticing the change. "Jeff?"

"Good news, Penny. They've found Scott and he's all right. I don't know what happened yet, but Gordon's with Thunderbird One and we're going to get Brains out there right away. Virgil is bringing Scott here so the doctors can check him out, just in case."

"Oh, Jeff, that _is_ good news," The beautiful British blonde smiled at him. "Goodness, what a day you've all had."

"It's been a busy one, all right," he admitted. He stood with her, looking through the glass to where Tin-Tin sat beside Alan's unconscious form, holding his hand. He had come through surgery with flying colors, and the doctors didn't expect any undue complications. Still, he'd have to stay in the hospital at least a week, and there would be convalescent time after that. "Penny, I want to thank you for coming here so quickly. It made me feel so much better to know you were here for Alan when he arrived."

"I'm just glad I was at Bonga Bonga when it happened," she said. "I always think it's better if these things stay in the family, so to speak."

He smiled down at her. "I couldn't agree more."

"That nice doctor you brought with you…what is her name…?"

"Elizabeth. Elizabeth Grant. She's been covering the islands in our area for about a year now."

"Yes. She doesn't know, I gather?"

He shook his head. "Oh, no. We told her he got hurt moving equipment we were airlifting to the island."

"She must think you're all quite accident prone."

Jeff grinned. "You had a brother, Penny...you know what boys are like. I've got five of them, every onea live wire with a mind of his own. It wouldn't be too much of a stretch for things like this to happen once in a while, even if we weren't doing what we're doing."

"I suppose not." Penelope looked through the glass at Alan for a moment, eyes clouding with memories of her own. Then: "It's going to be a while beforeAlan wakes up, Jeff. Why don't we go and find ourselves a cup of tea?"

Jeff hesitated. "Okay," he said, after a moment, "I suppose that would be all right. I could use something to drink – although I can't promise it's going to be tea."

Penelope smiled. "I'll just go and tell Tin-Tin where we'll be."

* * *

They were still in the cafeteria, deep in conversation, when Scott and Virgil arrived an hour later. Despite the occasional recurrence of what he referred to as uneven floor syndrome, not to mention a headache that could crack concrete, Scott was feeling a little stronger – so they had decided to follow the original plan to hide Thunderbird Two at Bonga Bonga and take the helijet into Sydney. "Hey, Dad, Penny…look what I found floating around in the water," Virgil greeted the two at the table as they approached.

Scott looked in one piece, if a little the worse for wear, Jeff noted with relief. "What happened to you, son? You had us really worried."

"I had _me_ worried, " Scott admitted. "I'll tell you all the gory details – but first, how's Alan doing?"

"He's in recovery now…should be waking up soon. The surgery went fine," his father said. "How's your head?"

"Nothing a bucket of aspirin wouldn't fix," Scott said, pulling up a chair. Beside him, Virgil did the same.

"Have Elizabeth check you out," his father said. "She'll probably want to get you x-rayed, just to be safe."

"I'm fine, dad, really."

"Now, Scott," Penelope said, "I think you're exaggerating just a little. You don't look at all fine."

"Gee, thanks, Penny," he smiled. But she was right – he felt watery and transparent, and when he moved his head it stabbed at him as if someone was trying to split it open with an axe.

"Liz is probably with Alan now," Virgil said, standing up. "Come on, let's go get you looked at."

"Okay, okay," Scott grumbled. "If I must."

It wasn't until the two of them had left again that Jeff let himself sag a little in his seat, feeling suddenly gray and drained. The events of the last few hours were catching up with him, and the continual emotional highs and lows had left him exhausted. "Your boys are safe," Penelope said softly, as if she could read his thoughts – touching a comforting hand to his arm. "That's what counts. Everything else is just details."

He nodded. "Thanks, Penny."

"You're quite welcome, Jeff. You're quite welcome."

* * *

True to Virgil's prediction, he and Scott found Dr. Elizabeth Grant in the recovery room, checking on Alan. A tall, athletic, lovely brunette with eyes the color of warm sherry, Elizabeth radiated a calm strength that went beyond her twenty-nine years. She also had a love of flying that rivaled the Tracy family's own, and she had quickly become a favorite visitor to the island – even if, as their doctor, those visits tended to be under less than ideal circumstances.

"Scott, Virgil," she smiled as she saw them come in. "It's good to see you." They came up either side of her and gave her greeting hugs.

"How's my favorite flying doctor?" Scott grinned. "It's been a while."

"Yeah, three whole weeks," Virgil chimed in. "We were on the verge of pushing someone off the roof to get a visit."

"I hope that's not what happened to Alan," she said in mock disapproval.

"How is he?" Scott asked, sobering a little as he looked down at his youngest brother. It was more painful than he could have imagined to see Alan like that, dark bruises under his eyes, chest swathed in bandages, hooked up to monitors and IVs and oxygen lines.

"He's doing fine." Elizabeth put down Alan's chart. "He'll be coming around soon, and then we'll be able to move him to his room."

"Dad said he'd have to be here a week," Virgil said.

She nodded. "He's young and strong, and he tolerated the surgery well, but a collapsed lung and four broken ribs is nothing to be taken lightly. Depending on how he does over the next couple of days, we might be able to release him by the end of the week." She looked at them both sternly. "But he's going to have to take it easy for at least four weeks after that, to give things a chance to mend."

"So I take it that means we'll be seeing a lot more of you in the near future?" Scott asked innocently.

She rolled her eyes. "Scott Tracy, do you ever give up?"

He grinned, totally unaffected.

Virgil stifled a yawn. Elizabeth turned to him, looking at him more closely. "You look all out, Virgil," she said. "How long have you been flying?"

He glanced guiltily at Scott. "Ten hours, give or take. But it feels like twenty. I didn't get much sleep the night before."

She shook her head. "Well, as your physician, I am telling you to stay out of that pilot's seat and get a good night's rest. You're not hurt, are you? Jeff said you were with Alan when the accident happened. "

Before he could say anything, she pushed him down into a chair and took out a pencil light, checking his pupils. "Hey," Scott protested, "What about me? I was the one who crashed!"

Elizabeth just stared at him. Virgil couldn't help it – he burst out laughing at the expression on her face.

* * *

The first thing he was aware of was the pain. Alan tried to take a deep breath, and nearly cried out at how much it hurt. He bit it back with an effort, trying to get his eyes open. They felt sticky, like his eyelids were glued together.

"Alan," a voice swam down toward him. It sounded kind of familiar. "Alan, can you hear me?"

If he kept his breathing really shallow, he could just about bear it. A cool damp cloth wiped gently over his eyelids, and he found he could open them easier now. Bright light stabbed at him and he flinched, closing them again quickly.

"Alan, it's me, Tin-Tin."

_Tin-Tin._ Alan felt a rush of relief through the agony in his chest. He forced his eyes back open and tried to focus. This time he saw her, sitting beside him, holding his hand. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a dry rasping sound.

"Shhhh," she said softly. "Don't try to talk. You're in the hospital."

Hospital?

She saw the confusion in his eyes. "Virgil and Gordon brought you here after you got hurt in the rescue. Do you remember the rescue?"

It took a moment – then he had a sudden image of the rain and wind, Thunderbird Two hovering overhead, the escape pod traveling up the cable. Then he was swinging with the grabs, the rogue wave smashing him into the hull of the _Spirit of Nantucket_. He managed a nod.

There was the sound of a door somewhere to his right. "Elizabeth, he's awake," Tin-Tin said.

"Oh, good." Dr. Elizabeth Grant came into view on the opposite side of the bed. "Alan, how are you feeling?"

He had to try twice before he could get his voice to work. "Great," he managed to gasp.

Elizabeth shook her head. "You Tracy boys," she said. "For real now, Alan, I want you to rate your pain on a scale from 1-10."

"For real?" he croaked. "11."

She smiled. "I know. You sustained four broken ribs and a punctured lung in the accident, and then it seems like a rather inexperienced paramedic gave you a needle decompression in the field when you developed a tension pneumothorax. He saved your life, but it wasn't the neatest job I ever saw."

Tin-Tin squeezed his hand. He looked over at her, saw her discreetly mouth Gordon's name. He managed a smile.

Dr. Grant was looking at his chart. "Now that you're awake we can do something about that pain," she said. "You'll be feeling better in no time. Tin-Tin, why don't you go and tell Jeff that Alan's awake?"

"Okay," Tin-Tin said. She gave Alan's hand another squeeze. "I'll be right back, Alan."

A nurse came in as Tin-Tin left and began prepping a morphine drip. "We're going to give you control over the drip, Alan," Elizabeth explained. "You just hit the button on the pump when you need more painkiller, okay?"

_That button's going to get a workout,_ he thought, eyes watering from the pain as he tried to get enough air into his lungs to speak again. He thought better of it and settled for the all-purpose – and much less painful – nod.

He watched the nurse hang the drip and swab his arm, inserting the catheter needle. The relief was immediate and marvelous, the pain replaced by a drug induced high, like floating on a white puffy cloud. "I think I love you," he croaked to the nurse.

She laughed. "You're quite a celebrity, Mr. Tracy. Everyone saw International Rescue bring you here yesterday in person. They landed right outside the hospital in the parking lot."

Alarm penetrated the blissful morphine haze. "International Rescue?"

"Yes," Elizabeth said, smiling. "They picked you up after the accident. Virgil told me. He said it's a shame you got to ride in one of those wonderful machines of theirs when you're not going to be able to remember a thing about it."

"Yeah," Alan said, trying to mask his relief and sound suitably disappointed at the same time. "Bummer."

Elizabeth glanced at the nurse. "He's not going to feel that for a while, not through all the morphine. But I'm sure we'll hear about it when he gets better."

The nurse nodded. "Boys and their toys."

Elizabeth grinned. "Isn't that the truth."

* * *

Satisfied that Alan was resting comfortably after being moved to his room, Elizabeth finally left the hospital three hours later, leaving instructions with the hospital staff to page her if anything happened. Earlier, she'd had them run a CT scan on Scott, and after finding a couple of small blood clots at the injury site, she had ordered him to stay in the hospital overnight. Grouse and grumble as he might, she wouldn't budge, threatening to ban him from the air if he didn't listen. Reluctantly, knowing full well his father would back her one hundred percent, he had given in and allowed her to check him in for observation.

Jeff Tracy had arranged for accommodations for all of them at a nearby luxury hotel. As Elizabeth swiped the key card and entered the dark outer room of her suite, she was conscious of a sudden feeling of unease – the hairs on the back of her neck prickling as though somebody was watching her. _Don't be silly, _she thought. _You're just tired_. Shrugging it off, she reached for the light switch.

She never made it. Strong arms grabbed her from behind. She struggled to free herself but her assailant's grip was much too powerful. She couldn't move at all. And then she smelled something familiar…

"Virgil Tracy," she gasped out, "You scared the crap out of me!"

He laughed, spinning her around to face him. "What gave me away?"

"You're wearing the after shave I gave you, genius."

"Oh, shut up," he said, pulling her close, his mouth seeking hers hungrily. Her arms slid up around his neck and she lost herself in his kiss.

"I've missed you," he said after a long while, holding her tightly against him, inhaling the scent of her hair. "I thought you'd never get out of that hospital."

"Well, you wouldn't want me to leave your brothers there without adequate medical treatment, would you?" she asked.

"Those two? Screw 'em," he said amiably, kissing her again.

"No thanks," she murmured against his mouth. "I'm taken."

His arms tightened possessively around her, his mouth growing harder and more demanding on hers. She could feel the heat as his body began to react to their closeness. "Virgil," she said breathlessly, "Wait…"

After a moment, he lifted his head, bemused. "Huh?"

"I'm sorry…I'm all sweaty and nasty…I need to take a quick shower. Just give me five minutes, okay?"

"You smell fine to me," he said, kissing the side of her neck.

"Please?"

He sighed. "Okay."

"I'll be right in." She had to smile at his expression. "Why don't you go and slip into something more comfortable?"

"Okay," he sighed again, sounding like a little kid who'd been told he had to wait to open his presents on Christmas morning.

"Uh, Virgil…"

"Yeah?"

"You have to let go of me, honey…"

"Oh." Reluctantly, he released her. She laughed and headed straight for the shower.

"Five minutes!" she called over her shoulder.

She stripped off her clothes, grabbed the soap and stepped quickly under the hot spray, wanting to get back to Virgil as soon as possible. A few minutes later, wrapped in a towel, she opened the door to the suite's bedroom.

He was sprawled out on the bed, fast asleep.

Elizabeth shook her head, smiling. She sat down beside him, stroking his thigh very lightly. "Virgil?"

His only response was a soft snore. _Oh well_, she thought,_ at least he managed to take his clothes off first…_ She sighed, taking off the towel and tossing it on to a nearby chair. She turned out the lights, snuggled into bed close to him and pulled the sheet up over them both. Virgil murmured something in his sleep. His arm slipped around her instinctively, pulling her close, spooning her against him. She was so tired herself, it didn't take long for her to drift off.

She awoke in the pre-dawn hours to the delicious, shivery feeling of his mouth slowly moving over her neck and shoulders from behind, his arm still wrapped securely around her. "Why, Virgil, is that a gun in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?"

"What pocket?" he grinned wolfishly against her skin. She giggled as he turned her over and pulled her underneath him in one smooth move.

He paused, gazing down at her, the expression in his dark eyes tender and hungry at the same time. She reached up and stroked his face, brushing the hair back from his forehead. "I love you," he said.

"You'd better," she grinned.

And then she cried out as he proceeded to prove it, way past the possibility of any doubt.


	6. Chapter Six

**

_SIX_

**

Scott awoke, like always, before dawn. He lay there for a few minutes, staring in frustration at the ceiling – wondering how his brain always knew when to kick in, no matter what time zone he happened to be sleeping in.

It was useless, of course. Once he was awake, he might as well get up. He lifted his head slowly, pleased to find that at least it felt a lot better than it had a few hours earlier. The stabbing pain had subsided to a dull ache that he could handle with no problem. He decided he could handle taking a walk around.

Scott didn't like hospitals. He always had to steel himself to walk into one, although he wasn't sure he really understood why. There was something about all those white walls and the endless maze of identical corridors that would close in on him without warning, filling him with an urgent, claustrophobic need for fresh air and open skies. Even when it was one of his own family in there, he frequently spent at least part of visiting hours on a bench in the gardens outside.

The pretty young nurse at the central station called out as she approached. "Mr. Tracy, you shouldn't be out of bed."

"I can't sleep," he said as he approached, smiling ruefully. "It's a problem I have. I don't suppose you have any coffee?"

"Now, Mr. Tracy…"

He leaned his arms on the counter in front of her, unconsciously turning on the charm that had made him very popular on campus, years ago. "Please?"

She hesitated. It was very hard to look at him and say no. "Okay," she smiled. "One cup."

He grinned. She went to get it for him.

Left alone, he turned around, taking in his surroundings. All those white walls… A movement caught his eye – someone had entered a room about halfway down one of the corridors that branched off from the central hub. Needing the distraction, he decided to check it out.

When he got there, he found himself at the observation window of a recovery room much like the one his brother had occupied right after his surgery. In the bed was a fair, bearded man in his mid-thirties with a bandaged head injury, hooked up to monitors just like Alan had been. Something stirred in his memory – he wasn't sure, but he could have sworn he'd seen this man before, somewhere.

Then a young woman came into the room from the adjoining bathroom, and he understood. He recognized her immediately, even though she looked quite different from when they had met only a few hours before. Her long, honey blonde hair had been matted and darkened with salt water then, but he'd know those sea green eyes anywhere. She was the woman who had helped him on the _Spirit of Nantucket_. And she wasn't just pretty, she was downright beautiful.

Unobserved, he watched her through the glass as she sat at the man's bedside. Scott remembered him now – he had been one of the other survivors of the capsized yacht. She took his hand, leaning in, talking to him softly. Scott felt something odd stir in his gut…and realized, to his surprise, that it was jealousy.

_Tracy, you are way out of line,_ he told himself firmly. _Come on, get your ass out of here before she sees you._

But he couldn't move, his feet somehow rooted to the spot, gazing at her.

"Mr. Tracy, you need to go back to your room." The nurse had found him. She pressed a mug of coffee into his hand. "Here, you can take this with you. Come on, please, before you get me into trouble."

Very reluctantly, he allowed her to lead him away from the observation window and back toward his room. It was for the best, he told himself. Complications like that, he didn't need. His life was difficult enough already.

Behind him, Tally Somerville caught the movement out of the corner of her eye. She looked around at the observation window – but by then Scott and the nurse were gone.

* * *

It was too late, Virgil thought desperately – he wasn't going to make it. The ropes were slipping and Thunderbird One's fuselage was sinking fast – and no matter what he tried he couldn't get the hatch open. Somehow everyone else had disappeared, and he was all alone, diving again and again into the glassy green water until his chest felt like it was going to explode. But there was nothing he could do. The last rope slithered away and he watched, horrified and helpless, as the silver rocket plane slipped away from him into the murky depths – taking his brother with her.

A loud beeping sound stabbed at his ears. He swung around, the water suddenly becoming an animate object, clutching at his arms and legs. What…?

He jerked awake with a start, breathing hard, covered with cold sweat. It took a moment for the hotel bedroom to swim into focus around him. Relief flooded into him – it had all been just a bad dream.

The grabbing feeling he'd experienced had been the sheets, he realized, which had become wound tightly around him as he tossed and turned. It took Virgil a minute to disentangle himself. Daylight was streaming in through a crack in the curtains. He could hear Elizabeth in the next room, talking quietly on the phone, and he realized that it had been the sound of her pager going off that had awakened him.

He lay back on the bed, the dream still trailing cold fingers through his insides. He and his brothers had all learned to live with the nightmares – they were a hazard of the job. They came up against death and devastation every time they went out on a rescue, and it was near impossible, sometimes, to leave it behind them. Sometimes it helped to talk about it. Sometimes it didn't. Sometimes it would take days for the really bad ones to go away.

"Hi." Elizabeth was standing in the doorway, wearing a hotel bathrobe. "I didn't know you were awake."

Virgil sat up, reaching out to her. She came forward into his arms, letting him pull her down and wrap her tightly against him, not knowing that he needed the warmth of her body to melt the last of the nightmare's ice. "What is it?" she asked softly, puzzled.

He didn't answer her for a long moment, holding her, face buried in her thick golden brown hair. "It's nothing," he said at last. "Was that the hospital?"

"Yes. They wanted to tell me that Alan came through the night very well. Nobody can find Scott, which I suppose is a good thing."

He grinned. "I suppose." Privately, he would have taken bets on where Scott was – at least halfway to the tiny Pacific island where Brains and Gordon were working on Thunderbird One. He wondered if his elder brother had tried to call him in his room earlier…and if so, what he'd thought when he couldn't reach him, especially since none of his family knew anything of his romantic involvement with Elizabeth Grant.

"I'm starving. What do you want for breakfast?" Elizabeth reached over him for the phone to call room service. Virgil took advantage of the situation, parting her robe and sliding his hands inside. "Mmmm. That's not fair," she murmured, but he wasn't listening.

* * *

Tally stifled a yawn as she came out of her brother's hospital room. She hadn't gotten much sleep since they had arrived via helijet from the _Colin Powell_ the night before. Michael's condition had taken a turn for the worse not long after the International Rescue team had left them and the other survivors aboard the aircraft carrier, and the Navy medics had made the decision that he needed to be airlifted to Sydney for immediate surgery.

He'd come through it well, and she'd spent what was left of the night with him in the recovery room. Satisfied with his progress, the doctors had moved him to a room early that morning, and Tally finally felt that she could leave him long enough to get a cup of coffee.

In the caféteria, every conversation she passed by seemed to be about the Southern Oceans Race yacht rescue. Tally couldn't help but smile as she listened to some of the accounts, whose sheer drama put the reality of the experience to shame.

As she got into the checkout line behind two nurses, she heard one of them say, "I wish you'd seen it – International Rescue called and told us to clear the parking lot. I never saw such a plane – great big green thing, landed on rockets. Made a lovely mess of the tarmac."

Tally's head came up. _Thunderbird Two_, she thought. It had to be.

"Wow," she said, managing to sound suitably impressed. "International Rescue was here?"

The nurse turned round, eager to include Tally in her gossip. "Oh, yes. They brought one of the victims in," she said. "A young man with broken ribs and a punctured lung."

Tally felt an excited shiver run up her spine. A reporter didn't often get lucky breaks like this. She knew first hand that International Rescue had left all the survivors on the carrier – so the one they'd brought to the hospital _had_ to be their own operative, the man who was trapped by the grabs against the hull. What had Scott called him? _Alan._ "Is he going to be all right?" she asked, carefully keeping the recognition out of her voice.

"Oh, yes. Went through surgery yesterday, came out fine. He'll be here at least a week, though."

Tally paid for her coffee and headed straight for the nearest vidphone.

A young blonde woman answered on the other end. "WNN Assignment desk. Oh, hi, Tally."

"Hey, Shelley. Is Joss around?"

"He's down in Photo. Hold on, I'll switch you through."

Tally waited, sipping her coffee. She smiled politely at the trio of people passing her – a good-looking man in his fifties, a pretty young Eurasian woman, and a beautiful blonde woman with luminous blue eyes.

"Tally, where are you?" Joss's ruggedly handsome face appeared on the screen.

"Sydney," she said.

"Sydney, Australia?"

"Yes, Sydney, Australia," she smiled, flexing stiff neck muscles. "Mike needed an operation. They flew us here from the carrier last night."

"Jesus, Tally – is he going to be okay?"

"I hope so," she said. "I'm going to have to be here a few more days, though."

"Okay, I'll tell Mason. Just keep in touch.

"How is Mason?" she asked. "Still pissed at me?"

"With a vengeance. He really wants that rescue story. Rescues are getting huge numbers right now."

She smiled. "Well, you can tell him that he's in luck, because I'm working on the _mother_ of all rescue stories. I promise you it's going to knock his socks off."

"Tally, what are you talking about?" She was frustrating him again, she could tell by the way he ran his hand through his shaggy blond hair.

She looked up and down the corridor before she spoke. "I'm going after International Rescue," she said. "I'm going to be the first to tell the world who they really are."

* * *

Getting Thunderbird One home was going to be a long, frustrating process.

Scott and Tin-Tin took off from Sydney in the Tracy jet at six a.m., arriving at the coordinates Virgil had given them an hour and fifteen minutes later. As they circled above the tiny South Pacific island, their trained eyes picked out the camo net in the shallow water just off shore, concealing the floating Thunderbird's one hundred fifteen foot long fuselage from prying eyes. They couldn't see her, but they knew Thunderbird Four was also there, tethered to her much larger sister. The only visible vehicle was the blue and white Tracy seaplane, floating close to shore. Nobody was moving yet in the base camp under the palms on the narrow strip of white sand.

Scott handed over the controls to Tin-Tin and moved to the rear of the plane, strapping on a parachute. He attached a metal supply container to a snap hook on his belt.

"See you back home," he said. "Keep an eye on Alan for me."

The words were light, but she knew how deeply he felt them. "Don't worry, Scott," she smiled. "As soon as Mrs. Tracy arrives from the mainland, she will take care of him for both of us!"

Scott grinned. "If we could market that apple pie, we'd make a fortune."

Tin-Tin's laugh was still in his ears as he launched himself out through the cabin door into the open sky.

Gordon must have set proximity detectors surrounding their camp, because moments after Scott pulled the ripcord that unfurled his parachute, his brother was out of his tent and staring up at him. Scott landed on the beach in a spray of sand, and Gordon ran to meet him, helping to drag in the yards of nylon that had landed partially in the clear blue water. The two brothers exchanged a bear hug. "Thanks," Scott said. "Virgil tells me you pulled me out back there."

Gordon grinned. "I dunno why I keep doing things like that. I'm never going to move up the chain of command this way."

They walked back together toward the little base camp. "You look like hell, incidentally," Scott said.

"Thanks," Gordon retorted. "I bet you slept in a bed last night. Some of us haven't seen civilization in days."

"I brought breakfast." Scott indicated the supply container. Gordon's face lit up.

"Okay," he said, "You can stay."

By the time Brains stumbled, yawning, out of one of the tents, Scott had breakfast almost ready. "Do I, uh-uh, smell eggs?" the scientist asked, cleaning his glasses on his shirt. He put them on and focused on the new arrival. "Oh, hi, uh, Scott."

"Hey, Brains," Scott greeted him. "Least I could do. How's Thunderbird One?"

"She'll be a-a-all right," Brains said, taking the offered plate of eggs and bacon. "I-I've finished the preliminary ah-ah, diagnostics, and she's safe to ah, move, but we'll have to tow her home."

"Okay." Scott hid his frustration with an effort. "So that's what we'll do. How soon can we get underway?"

"Ah, right a-after, ah, breakfast," Brains smiled, spearing a big forkful of eggs.

It took nearly two hours to pack up base camp, load all the equipment and reattach Thunderbird Four's tow cables to Thunderbird One. Scott fussed over the process like an overanxious mother hen, sick with guilt at the sight of his beloved Thunderbird missing chunks of her wing and tail sections. It didn't help that Brains repeatedly reassured him that the damage was superficial and would be easily repaired once they reached home.

At long last everything was ready. Scott argued with Gordon that since he had had a rest, he should take over Thunderbird Four while his brother rode with Brains in the seaplane. But Gordon wouldn't have any of it. Scott had never towed anything with the submersible, let alone a one hundred forty ton rocket plane, and this wasn't the time for first attempts. What if the flotation collars gave out and he had to dive after Thunderbird One in the ocean? Grumbling, knowing he was right, Scott gave in at last and reluctantly took the pilot's seat in the seaplane – which Brains was more than glad to relinquish.

"Thunderbird Four from seaplane. Ready for take-off."

"F.A.B., Scott," Gordon's voice came back. "Moving out now."

Scott fired the engines. The seaplane skimmed forward over the glass-smooth water, rapidly picking up speed. The air currents caught her wings and she surged up into the sky, climbing swiftly. Scott's spirits lifted with her. He never tired of that magic moment when he became, once again, part of the sky instead of a creature bound to the earth.

"Seaplane from Thunderbird Two, is that you, Scott?" It was Virgil's voice. Surprised, Scott banked the seaplane, searching the sky until he saw the great green Thunderbird approaching from the west.

"Hey, Virg. About time you showed up. Sleep well?"

He could hear his brother's grin. "Like a petrified log. Sorry I didn't get your message this morning."

"Ah, well, who needs you? I found something else with wings."

"So I see." Thunderbird Two began to descend in a slow, sweeping arc. "Going in to pick up Pod 4 now."

"F.A.B." Scott made a circle of the island, coming back directly over Thunderbird Four. The submarine was making slow but steady headway, plowing through the calm water with Thunderbird One in tow. If the weather held they should make it home in a little over three hours.

He settled in for the flight. Behind him, Thunderbird Two swooped down toward the water like an enormous bird of prey. Her landing jets fired, Virgil swinging her into position and lowering her down over the floating pod with the precision of long practice. The electromagnetic seals thunked into place and she lifted back into the sky, whole again. Virgil banked her gracefully eastward into the morning sun, following his brothers home.

* * *

The young guard behind the security desk smiled at Tally as she came in through the front doors of the Sydney bureau of the World News Network. "Good morning, Miss. ID, please."

"I'm Tally Somerville from the New York office," she said. "There should be a pass waiting for me."

The guard checked his computer screen. "Ah, yes, Ms. Somerville." He clicked a couple of keys, pulled the temporary pass from the printer. He checked the picture against her face. "Here you are. Make sure you wear this at all times when you're in the building."

"Thanks," Tally smiled. She went through the metal detector and the guard buzzed her through the main doors.

Upstairs in the news bureau, a familiar face greeted her. "Tally! How the hell are you, kiddo?"

"Graham!" Tally hugged her old friend, veteran WNN reporter Graham Hamilton. Graham was a big grizzly bear of a man with a deep, growly voice, intimidating to those who didn't know that his demeanor hid a heart as big as the continent of Australia. "How are you?"

"Let's see… Long hours, crappy pay, no life… Pretty good, I'd say. How about you? When are you and Richard going to set that wedding date?"

The pain sucker-punched her in the gut. He didn't know, she realized. "There isn't going to be a wedding. Richard and I broke up two months ago."

He studied her suddenly pale face, steering her quickly into his office. He gestured for her to sit opposite him at the paper-strewn desk. "I don't believe it," he said, genuinely astonished. "I thought…"

"So did I," Tally said quietly. "Apparently we were both wrong."

"What happened, kiddo?"

She hesitated for a long moment, staring at her hands. The memory, still too fresh, was making her feel sick to her stomach. "He…met someone else."

"Oh, no. After four years?"

She nodded slowly. "One minute I'm picking out wedding invitations…the next I'm getting calls from the New York Times society editor asking me for a comment on a tip that my so-called fiance is apparently intending to marry someone else."

"Son of a bitch," Graham said, shaking his head. "He didn't even tell you himself?"

"No. They met in the Hamptons last summer when I was on assignment in Hong Kong. They've been seeing each other ever since."

"Behind your back, eh? Classy guy," Graham snorted.

"Yep. I should have known something was wrong. I was just working too hard to see it, I guess."

"Still, kiddo, finding out from the New York Times is a little rough."

"Yeah. Public humiliation – my favorite thing. That was his mother's doing – she and my mother can't stand each other, which figures. Always trying to outdo each other on the party circuit. She couldn't wait to deliver the bad news."

"How did your family take it?"

"How do you think?" Tally said, the bitterness creeping into her voice now. "My mother thinks it's all my fault – I should have been standing guard over him, instead of being gone on assignment. She thinks of men as things that can be stolen…like Richard was a car, or a piece of jewelry, for God's sake."

"So that's why you went on that yacht race with Michael," Graham said, understanding now. "To get away."

"Partly," she said. "It sure came along at a good time. But I've been having such trouble getting a break from that asshole Mason. I thought maybe this would be a good enough story that he'd finally cut me some slack."

"Well, Mason can be an asshole, all right…but he's not usually an unfair man," Graham said. "You two don't get along?"

She looked at him for a moment, deciding whether to tell him the truth. "Not nearly as well as he'd like," she said, carefully. "If you see what I mean."

It took him a second, but then comprehension dawned. "Wait a minute…he hit on you?"

She nodded. "Oh, yes. Not too subtly, either."

"And you turned him down, of course."

"Yes. And he's treated me like a copy clerk ever since."

"And you haven't done anything about it?" Graham was outraged.

"Oh, come on, Graham, what can I do? He's a man, and he's got thirty years in the business. I open my mouth and no news network in the Western hemisphere will touch me with a ten-foot pole. I've just got to keep plugging away and hope he gets over it. Either that or come up with a story so big his ratings Jones gets the better of him."

"I'm so sorry, kiddo," he said. "You understand, I want to kill him."

"Get in line," she said, smiling despite herself.

Graham pulled open a desk drawer and came up with a bottle of Scotch and two glasses. He blew the dust off one and handed it to Tally. "Here…hold this."

She laughed as he poured. "Graham, you are such a cliché."

"Aren't I, though?" He reached over and clinked his glass against hers. "To better days."

"Oh, yeah," she said determinedly, knocking back half of the golden liquid in one swallow.

"Speaking of which, you said you needed some help," he said, settling back in his chair. "What's the story?"

"I know I don't need to say this, but this is strictly between us," she said.

"That big, huh?"

She nodded. "I'm going after International Rescue."

There was silence for a moment. Then he gave a short laugh. "Can't be done, kiddo. I know. It's been tried at least a dozen times."

"I've met them, Graham – they rescued Mike and me from the _Spirit of Nantucket_. I can identify at least three of them, and I know where one of them is right now."

He paused, looking hard at her. "You're serious. You're really going to try this."

Her chin came up defiantly. "I've got to, Graham. It's my chance – I know it. After all the shit I've been through this past couple of years, this one finally landed right in my lap. I'd be a fool not to give it my best shot."

"And Mason would be a fool not to air it," he said slowly, nodding. "Not to mention the shitload of awards you'd probably win. Well, you know I'm in your corner. I don't know how much help I can be, but whatever you need…"

"Thanks, Graham," she smiled. "I knew I could count on you."

He clinked glasses with her again. "Well, kiddo, I've got to admit, if anybody could get an exclusive with International Rescue, it would be you."

Tally laughed.


	7. Chapter Seven

**

_SEVEN_

**

Air Terrainean Flight 432 to Sydney from Kansas City via Los Angeles had one very upset passenger on board that day – Ruth Tracy. She had only been back in the States a week, making a slow round of Tracy family visitations, when she got the phone call that her youngest grandson had been badly injured. She was on a plane to Australia in less than two hours.

Jeff, Lady Penelope and Parker were at the gate to meet her when she arrived. Grandma Tracy ignored the latter two as she came out into the concourse, heading straight for her son like a ship in full sail. "Jefferson Tracy, I want a word with you."

"Blimey," Parker muttered. "Better 'im than me."

Penelope smiled at the sight of the usually confident and self-assured Jeff Tracy suddenly adopting the body language of a teenager in trouble. "Now, mother," he began uneasily.

"How many times have I told you that if you're not careful these boys are going to get hurt!"

"Mother, I didn't…"

"Oh, you didn't, did you? And how did Alan manage to break four ribs and puncture a lung, I ask you? I guarantee he wasn't diving into the swimming pool!"

"Mother," Jeff said again, glancing around him nervously.

Grandma squared off. "Oh, here we go again. You and that wretched secret organization of yours, taking precedence over everything."

Jeff looked as if he was about to have a stroke. "For God's sake, keep your voice down!"

"Don't you tell _me_ what to do, I'm your mother!" she snapped. "Now where is Alan?"

Helplessly, Jeff gestured ahead of him down the concourse. Grandma swept forward. "Nice to see you, Penelope…Parker," she said as she passed, as if greeting the ladies from her quilting circle.

"Gawd," Parker said, watching them go.

Penelope had to cover her mouth to prevent the laughter from exploding.

* * *

Tally sat back from the computer, rubbing tired eyes. She glanced at the time. Four p.m. – she had been working on the research for six solid hours with only a quick break for lunch, and she felt like she still hadn't learned anything at all about International Rescue.

She was beginning to understand what Graham had been trying to tell her. There were numerous vidclips and print articles about the exploits of this secret organization, but none of them contained any useful details about the craft or their crew beyond straight descriptions of how the rescues had gone down. It seemed that nobody had ever interviewed any of the operatives, either during or after a mission. And there were no photographs or videos at all.

She reached for the vidphone. After a few rings, the screen cleared and a very sleepy Joss appeared. "Hello..?"

"Joss? It's Tally."

"Tally? What time is it…?" Behind Joss, in the darkness of what was obviously his bedroom, Tally could see a naked woman sit up.

"Joss, honey, who is it?" the woman asked plaintively, leaning over. There was a brief scuffle and the screen went blank. Tally grinned as she saw the words "SOUND ONLY SELECTED" appear.

"Four o'clock in the afternoon in Sydney," she answered, "And I have a splitting headache. Why aren't there any pictures of International Rescue?"

"For God's sake, Tal…it's two in the morning…"

"You're my shooter, Joss… Who else am I going to ask?"

"Okay…okay." He gave in. "I checked the files today and saw the same thing, so I asked around. Bad news. You can't take pictures of them."

"What do you mean, you can't take pictures of them?"

"They have some kind of jamming frequency. Sonic waves, something. Nobody knows how they do it. It doesn't matter what you use – sixteen mil, beta, digibeta – everything comes out unfocused and pixilated."

She sat back in her chair, digesting this. "Even still shots?"

"Everything."

"Well, what about the operatives themselves?"

"Same thing. A friend of mine in Atlanta tried to take a picture of his kid with one of those guys once. He said the guy didn't get mad about it or anything…guess he knew the shot wouldn't turn out."

Tally rubbed her temples. "So we have to find a way to turn off whatever it is they're doing before we can even get a picture. More good news."

She could hear the woman in Joss's apartment again. "Joss, who _is_ that?

"Hush, honey, it's business," he said. "Tal, can we talk about this when you get back?"

"Okay," she said, softening. "And Joss…thanks. I mean it. I'll be home by Thursday, and the first round at O'Malley's is on me."

"Just the first round?" He was smiling, despite himself – she could hear it in his voice.

She sat staring into space for a long moment after he hung up, thinking. Then she glanced at the clock again. It was time to go and check on Michael…and perform a little experiment at the same time.

* * *

After looking in on her brother, Tally had a brief conference with the doctors. Although they expected Michael to make a full recovery, he wasn't ready to be moved at this time – and they certainly would not hear about him making the long flight home. Trying not to remember how difficult the conversation had been, she told them that she had been in touch with her parents, both of whom would be arriving the next day from the U.S. to take over her brother's care – so she could go back to New York while she still had a job with WNN.

Then she went back out to the central nurses' station, where one of the two nurses who had been gossiping about Thunderbird Two's arrival in the cafeteria was working her shift. Tally had spent time over the last couple of days getting to know her, and the investment was paying off nicely.

"Hi, Dorie," she said. "How's it going?"

Dorie smiled. "Hi. When are your parents coming in?"

"Tomorrow," Tally said, grimacing a little.

"Tomorrow? Aren't you flying out tomorrow?"

"Two hours after they arrive," Tally nodded. "Trust me, with my mother and me, it's for the best."

"I hear that," Dorie grinned. "My mom and I fight like cats in a sack."

Tally leaned on the desk. "By the way, I saw those scorch marks in the parking lot today," she said. "You were right – that International Rescue ship really did make a mess!"

Dorie lit up at a chance to gossip, just like Tally had known she would. "Oh, you're not kidding," she said. "You should have seen it. All that smoke and flame."

Tally grinned. "Exciting, huh? Wish I'd seen it." A pause, then: "How's the guy doing?"

"Guy?"

"The one they brought in. With the broken ribs."

"Oh," Dorie smiled, handing a chart over to a passing doctor. "He's doing fine. Nice guy – really good-looking, too."

"Really?" Tally leaned forward conspiratorially.

Dorie waved her hand in dismissal. "Oh, don't waste your time…he's got a girlfriend. Very pretty, too, which figures. She's hardly left his room since she got here, except when one of the rest of his family is around."

"His family?" Tally was instantly on alert.

"Oh, yes," Dorie nodded. "He's been surrounded by them since he got here. I'd have thought that girl was his sister, except that she's Eurasian, and he's about as blond as he could get."

Tally sighed. "All the good ones are taken."

"Excuse me, young lady." Tally turned to see that a handsome woman in her seventies was standing beside her at the desk, addressing the nurse.

"Yes, Mrs. Tracy?" Tally couldn't help noticing that the normally laid back Dorie became instantly attentive at the sight of this woman.

"Has my grandson's dinner arrived yet?"

"No, Mrs. Tracy. It should be here momentarily, though."

"Well, it'd better be," Grandma Tracy muttered. "Lord knows we're paying enough for it."

Tally exchanged a smile with Dorie as the old lady walked away. "She's loaded," Dorie confided as soon as Grandma was out of earshot. "At least, her son is. Funny how some people never really get used to having money."

The nurse glanced at her watch and stood up. "Well, it was nice chatting with you, but my shift's over and I've got to get home. My boyfriend will be screaming for his dinner – and unlike the Tracys over there, I can't afford delivery service from a five-star restaurant! See you tomorrow."

Knowing when to back off, Tally swallowed her frustration. She smiled and nodded as Dorie picked up her bag and left. She still hadn't managed to get either the patient's name or his room number. Damn that old woman and her timing, she thought. So close…

There was nothing else for it. She was going to have to go exploring.

* * *

Alan Tracy was feeling pretty good. Not only was he no longer in any pain, thanks to the blissful relief of the morphine pump, but he had a continual stream of women waiting on him hand and foot. Tin-Tin left his side only when she absolutely had to, and Elizabeth Grant and two very attractive nurses never seemed to be far away. And now his Grandma had arrived and immediately begun organizing everybody. Declaring the hospital food "hog slop" and unfit for her grandson to eat, she had gone on a sampling expedition to several local restaurants until she found one she approved of enough to order delivery. Now Alan was eating almost as well as if he were back on Tracy Island.

Even his brothers had temporarily stopped picking on him. "Alan, wash the Mole…" "Alan, steam clean the engine…" and "Alan, get those oil stains off the concrete…" had been replaced with "Alan, take it easy…" and "Alan, can I get you anything..?"

All he needed was for someone to peel him a grape and his happiness would be complete.

Elizabeth had been by earlier to talk to him about rehab. "Don't get used to the morphine," she warned him. "We'll have to wean you off it soon, and those ribs are going to hurt."

He wasn't looking forward to that. But for now, he intended to make the most of things.

He was half-dozing, eyes closed, when he heard the door opening to his right. He turned drowsily toward the sound. "Tin-Tin?"

Before he could get his eyes all the way open, a flash of light blinded him. "What the hell…?"

Footsteps hurried away, and the door closed. He blinked to clear his vision, but the room was empty again.

"Alan, did you call me?" Tin-Tin entered the room from the bathroom on the other side.

She stopped when she saw the look on his face. "What is it?"

"You'd better call Dad. I think somebody just took a picture of me."

* * *

"It's always possible it was innocent, Jeff," Penelope pointed out. "The whole hospital has been talking about how Alan arrived. He's become quite a celebrity in his own right."

"'Er Ladyship's quite right, Mr. Tracy," Parker chimed in. "It could 'ave just been a souvenir 'unter."

"I know," Jeff growled across the hospital cafeteria table. "But I don't think we should take any chances."

"No, Jeff, we shouldn't. Do you want to move him?"

"I don't know… I'd have to find a way to square it with Elizabeth, somehow. She's not going to want to allow it this soon, and I can't tell her why it's so important to us."

Penelope paused as a couple passed by the table, arm in arm. "You have state of the art medical facilities on the Island," she pointed out. "As long as the doctor is nearby, it shouldn't be a problem."

Jeff frowned. "You're right, of course. And I'd feel a whole lot better if Alan was back home where we can protect him. Especially after what happened to Scott."

He stood up. "I'm going to talk to Elizabeth. Wish me luck."

Penny smiled, watching him walk away. She wasn't worried. In all the time she had been around him, she had never known Jeff Tracy fail to get anything he really wanted.

* * *

"You have got to be out of your mind!" Elizabeth Grant rounded on Jeff before he had finished his first sentence. "Alan was seriously injured. He needs to be in the hospital for at least another four days!"

"We have excellent hospital facilities on the Island," Jeff said patiently. "You know that. And with you nearby…"

"Jeff, what if something went wrong? What if he coded in the middle of the night? I wouldn't be 'nearby' enough for that."

"Do you really think that would happen?"

She took a deep breath, willing herself to calm down and be professional about this. It was very hard to be truly objective about any of the Tracy family, considering her relationship with Virgil. Which his father didn't know about, she reminded herself. "No. Not really. He's strong and healthy and he's been doing extremely well. But I have to start weaning him off the morphine soon, and then he needs to start rehab. I want to begin magnetic field therapy to help his bones heal quickly, and he's going to need ice treatment for the swelling…"

"Come and stay with us for a week. Or two, if that's what it takes. I'll bring in a therapist – anything you want." Jeff would worry about the security problems later – his son's safety was his first concern at the moment.

Elizabeth stared at him. "I can't just take off…"

"Money's no object, Elizabeth," he said.

She sighed, knowing he wasn't trying to insult her integrity. "It's not about money, Jeff. I have a practice…"

"…And you have a backup who can fly your rounds for you. Hell, I'll pay _him_ if you want me to. Just say yes."

Elizabeth wondered if anyone ever won an argument with this man. She exhaled, giving in. "Okay," she said. "But he can't fly with that lung, not yet. We'll have to take him by sea."

Jeff grinned, reminding her irresistibly of Scott. "You make the arrangements. I'll go find us a boat."

"A slow one!" Elizabeth called after him.

It wasn't until he was gone that she suddenly realized she had just agreed to spend at least a week, maybe more, on the same small island as Virgil. The most time they had ever spent together in the almost one year they had been seeing each other had been three months ago – when a weekend getaway on a secluded Malaysian island had turned into three days after they'd been stranded there by a typhoon. Virgil had taken full advantage of the excuse, and they hadn't left the suite once the entire time. Her knees still went a little weak at the memory.

Maybe this was her chance to find out the answer to one puzzling question – why he steadfastly refused to tell his family that they were a couple. He claimed that he loved her. It was time, she thought, to find out where he really stood.

* * *

It wasn't a very good picture – a little blurry from movement of the camera, and the expression would have made a driver's license photo look like a professional headshot. But the young blond man was clearly recognizable. Tally had been right. This _was_ the International Rescue operative who had been injured in the Southern Oceans Cup rescue.

Obviously whatever prevented photographs being taken of the International Rescue craft and their crew had not been in operation in that hospital room.

Jazzed by her triumph, Tally slipped the tiny digital camera back into her overnight bag and leaned back in her seat. She checked her watch. They would be landing in New York in three more hours.

After her parents had arrived and they were visiting with Michael, Tally had taken her opportunity to slip away, escaping the inevitable argument with her mother about her work taking precedence over her life. Dorie had been on duty again at the nurse's station, and Tally just had time to do a little more sleuthing before she leaving for Sydney airport to make her flight. Since the International Rescue operative had woken up before she had been able to steal a look at his chart, she still didn't know his last name.

"Oh, he's gone," Dorie had said at her inquiry, shaking her head. "His doctor checked him out last night."

"Gone? To another hospital?"

Dorie leaned forward, lowering her voice to avoid attracting the attention of the head nurse, who was heading their way down the corridor. "Nobody knows for sure," she said. "Apparently the family wanted to take him home – wherever that is."

"You don't know? Doesn't it say on their chart?" Tally was pushing her luck here, but she was short on time. And anyway, Dorie didn't seem to mind.

Dorie shrugged. "The address is for their corporation in New York."

Time to take a big risk. "Dorie, what was his name?"

"Dorie!" The head nurse's voice came from right behind Tally. Damn, that woman moved fast. "You know it's strictly against the rules to talk about patients unless it's to members of their family. I'm surprised at you."

"I'm sorry," Dorie mumbled, going scarlet with embarrassment.

The head nurse fixed Tally with a suspicious stare. "Now unless you have a question about your brother, young lady, I suggest you leave Dorie here alone while she still has her job."

Tally raised a hand in surrender, backing off. "I'm sorry," she mouthed at Dorie in apology. Dorie shook her head, shrinking under the head nurse's withering gaze. Tally had made good her escape, only able to hope that Dorie wouldn't get in any more trouble on her account.

She had a long time to think about the situation on the flight home. So International Rescue had whisked their injured operative out from under her nose. Score one for them. She didn't know for sure if the move had been triggered by the picture she had taken the night before, but it was certainly likely – considering the lengths they normally went to, to avoid being photographed. If only he hadn't woken up as she crept into his room. But the flash was the only thing she could think of on the spur of the moment to prevent him from seeing her face long enough for her to make her escape.

It wasn't over yet, she reminded herself with a small determined smile. She was on their trail, and she intended to stay on it until she caught up to them again. No matter what it took.


	8. Chapter Eight

**

_EIGHT_

**

Dirty, sweaty and exhausted, Scott was supremely grateful to strip off his work clothes and step under the hard pounding water of a very hot shower. He stood there for a long time, head down, letting the heat seep into his tired muscles. It had been worth all the grueling hours of hard physical labor, though…thanks to his stubborn refusal to quit, Thunderbird One's refit was complete and she was airworthy again, thirty-six hours ahead of Brains' most optimistic schedule.

He just hoped she wouldn't be needed tonight.

He was almost too tired to eat, but when he at last emerged from the shower, the tantalizing smell of steak wafting from the kitchen proved too much for him. He pulled on jeans and a t-shirt and headed out in search of the source.

He heard Virgil at his father's desk, talking on the comlink, and took a detour to see what was going on. "Wait a minute, John," Virgil was saying as he entered the living room. "Liz is coming here? For how long?"

"At least a week," John said from the vidscreen on the wall. "Maybe longer. Depends on how long Alan needs her. They moved him to the ship tonight – they're going to spend the night in Sydney harbor and sail for home in the morning."

"John?" Scott said. "What's this about Alan?"

"Oh, hi, Scott," John greeted him. "Dad's decided to discharge Alan early and bring him home. Apparently Elizabeth would only agree to it if he had a doctor's care on a continual basis for at least the first week."

Scott was instantly suspicious. "Why so soon? Did something happen?

"Someone tried to take a photograph of him in his room," Virgil supplied. "We don't know why – it might just have been a curious patient, but after what happened to you…"

Scott nodded. "Damn right." He thought about it for a moment, and grinned. "Come to think of it, it'll be nice to have a little extra female company around the house."

"But what about the security problems?" Virgil burst out with such vehemence that both Scott and John turned to look at him in surprise. "What if we have to launch Thunderbirds?"

"Well," Scott said mildly, "I guess we'll handle it somehow. We've managed before, and it's not for very long."

"Well, I think it's a very bad idea," Virgil stood up, scowling. "I think Dad must be out of his mind."

"What's wrong, Virg?" Scott asked. "I thought you liked Elizabeth."

"I do!" Virgil stomped toward the doorway. "That's not the point."

Scott exchanged a glance of amused bewilderment with John. "What's gotten into him?"

John shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe he needs a vacation."

"Bro, we _all_ need a vacation," Scott said ruefully, easing tired shoulders.

John laughed. Scott signed off the transmission and went in search of steak.

* * *

The rescue siren went off at six a.m.

Scott, out of bed as usual, was down by the pool having a peaceful early morning cup of coffee when the silence was shattered by the familiar summons. He took off at a run for the long curving flight of steps that led to the villa.

Virgil and Gordon were already there. As ranking officer in his father's absence, Scott slid in behind the desk. "What's happening, John?"

"An insurance company skyscraper in New Jersey has been severely damaged by a car bomb, Scott," John told him. "Several floors have collapsed and the underground parking is completely cut off. Rescue workers were making progress when high levels of gas began to register on their instruments. Seems like several gas lines under the building have been ruptured. Conventional rescue can't proceed because of the threat of a gas explosion, and there are at least sixteen people trapped down there, four of them in one of the elevators.

"Okay, John…how many levels down are the trapped people?"

"Most of them seem to be on the fourth level. But the elevator is all the way at the bottom, ten floors down."

Scott's mouth twisted. "Love the easy ones. John, find Dad and tell him our status is go. Virgil, Gordon, Pod 3. We're going to need the Mole – and probably the Firefly."

He swung around and headed for the wall. "Okay, people…let's move!"

* * *

It was cold in New Jersey in January. Scott could see snow thick on the ground as Thunderbird One screamed out of the sky on final approach, nose up, spewing fire and smoke from her landing jet. He spotted the fire chief and several of his men racing to meet him as he descended the ladder. He pulled on heavy coat and gloves as he waited, glancing up at the steel gray clouds that were darkening now in the setting sun.

God, it was freezing. _That's what you get for living on a tropical island, Tracy,_ he thought. _You're getting soft._

Mobile control was set up in minutes at a safe distance from what remained of the forty-story insurance company building. The building had occupied its own business park, the land for several hundred yards around consisting of grounds and parking lots. At least that meant no nearby buildings were in danger if the gas went off.

"Thunderbird Two from Mobile Control. What is your ETA?"

"Fifty seven minutes, Scott."

"That's not so good. Can you cut that down?"

"Maybe… What's the situation?"

"The building's lost a couple more floors. If one more support column gives way the whole structure's going to come down. The fire department is keeping everything covered in foam – we can't afford a fire."

"What kind of shape is the parking garage in?" Virgil asked. "Is the roof holding up?"

Scott looked up, nodding his thanks as the fire chief handed over a roll of blueprints. "So far so good, but we're seeing structural cracks. I don't know what's going to happen if we lose the rest of the building."

"Not to mention if something sparks all that gas," Virgil said.

"You had to say that, didn't you?" Scott unrolled the blueprints. "I'm going to have a way in figured out before you arrive. Just get here as fast as you can."

"F.A.B."

Scott turned to the fire chief and together they pored over the building plans. "The elevator with the four trapped people is here, on level ten," the chief said, pointing out a block of four elevators in the center of the garage structure. "The remaining people are on the fourth level, approximately here." He indicated an area about halfway in from the left side of the structure.

"Why so many in the same place?" Scott asked. "Did they all leave together?"

"Not exactly," the fire chief grimaced. "It's two minivans full of kids from soccer practice. Eight and nine year olds."

_Jesus._ Scott stared at him. "How many adults?"

"Two. Four more in the elevator."

Scott hit the comlink. "Virgil, you've got to move your ass. We've got ten little kids under that building."

He gazed across at the ruined structure, feeling utterly and completely helpless.

* * *

Scott's nerves were at screaming point by the time Thunderbird Two's huge bulk appeared on the skyline. He had been over every detail of the situation at least ten times and made three exhaustively detailed circuits of the building, looking for some way to do _something_ – but he couldn't even find a hole big enough to put his remote camera down there. The approaching roar of his brother's engines made him swing around in relief, searching the sky for the running lights. He ran back across the parking lot to Mobile Control. "Mobile Control to Thunderbird Two. Don't put her down too close, Virg – your jets could set off the gas."

"F.A.B., Scott," Virgil came back. "Coming in to land just west of your location."

The firemen and other onlookers stared open mouthed as Thunderbird Two swooped out of the night sky. Scott always forgot what an impressive sight she must be to someone who had never seen her before – two hundred fifty feet of solid green muscle, sixty feet high, landing jets belching thick columns of fire as she settled to earth with the astonishing grace of his brother's piloting skills. As soon as her wheels touched the ground she reared up high again on her struts, exposing the pod with the big white number three painted on the front. The pod door swung down, forming a ramp, and Scott heard the powerful engines of the Mole cough into life.

The fire chief stood beside Scott, eyes riveted to the Mole as she lumbered down the ramp and headed toward them. "What the hell is that?"

"We call her the Mole," Scott smiled. "She's going to help us get those people out."

The Mole halted beside Scott, the rear cabin door sliding open in invitation. "That's my ride," Scott said, unable to resist a quick grin. "I'll keep you informed on what's going on under there."

The fire chief nodded dumbly, still staring up at the huge boring machine. Desperately glad to be in action, Scott vaulted up the steps and in through the door, which slid shut behind him. The Mole lurched forward, heading for the pile of rubble on the outskirts of the ruined building.

"Where do they _get_ these things?" the fire chief said, to nobody in particular.

On board the Mole, Scott came forward to where Virgil and Gordon sat at the drive and navigation controls, respectively. Underground the Mole was blind, depending completely on her sensitive instruments to guide her to her destination. "We're going to need the dicetylene jets when we bore," Scott told them. "We can't afford a single spark down there. Got the masks?"

"On board," Gordon acknowledged.

The Mole came to a halt. "Strap in," Virgil ordered. "We're going in."

Scott and Gordon took their seats and fastened their belts. Virgil hit the switch and the rear of the Mole's cabin began to rise up into the air, pointing her bit straight down at the rubble. "Dicetylene jets on. Boring…now."

The Mole's massive bit began to whirl in an ever-increasing spiral. She crawled forward on her tracks, sliding down until her spinning nose touched the rubble. They braced themselves as she took her first bite of concrete. There was hardly a shudder inside the cabin.

"Like a knife through butter," Virgil smiled with satisfaction.

"Right two degrees," Gordon said, eyes on the instruments.

"F.A.B."

As the Mole tunneled through the concrete into the parking lot, Scott watched the ultrasonic scanner over Gordon's shoulder, mentally overlaying the building plans on to the screen. "Should be nearly there," he said, after a couple of minutes.

"Entering Level Four now," Gordon nodded.

"How's the dicetylene holding up?"

"Fine," Virgil said. "Not a spark in sight."

"We're through!" Gordon announced. "Shut her down, Virgil."

The Mole's engines died away to silence. "What's the gas level?" Scott asked.

"Put it this way," Gordon said, glancing at the readings, "We'd better hurry."

"Let's do it." Scott broke open the equipment locker and handed both his brothers a gas mask. He pulled on his own and shoved more into bags. "Everybody take one. Let's go get those kids."

The fourth level of the structure was mostly intact, with some subsidence toward the western side of the building. They quickly located the two parked minivans. "Are they in there?" Gordon asked.

Scott peered in the side windows of one vehicle. "Yep – they're all passed out from the gas." He tried the doors, but they were locked. He hefted the fire ax. "Stand clear – I'm going to break the glass."

He swung the heavy ax into the window portion of the sliding door. The safety glass crazed but didn't break. Scott put his back into it, swinging again. This time the glass gave way at the bottom of the window. Scott tore at the pieces with his gloved hand and slipped his arm in, fishing for the door catch.

The door slid back and Gordon and Virgil were inside, scooping up small bodies and applying gas masks. "They're alive!" Virgil said, his voice edged with relief.

Scott was already swinging the fire ax at the window of the second vehicle.

When all the masks had been strapped in place, they transferred the unconscious children and adults to the Mole. Scott was rummaging around in the equipment locker as Gordon lifted the last one aboard. He straightened up, shoving gear and more masks into a bag. "Get them out of here," he said. "I'm going after the ones in the elevator."

Virgil twisted round in the drivers seat, frowning. "No, Scott – wait for us. We can bore straight down to the tenth level."

"I know, Virg, but if the gas has gotten to those trapped people, they could be dead before you reach them. I've got to try to get masks to them as quickly as possible."

"I'll go with you," Gordon said, standing up.

"Sorry, Gordo – the Mole's a two man operation," Scott said. "Get back down here as quick as you can. I'll see you on level ten."

He jumped down from the Mole to the concrete floor of the parking garage. Virgil swore in frustration as the cabin door slid shut. "I hate when he does that."

The Mole's engines roared into life and she began to reverse up into her bore hole. Scott swung around, eyes searching for the central elevator structure where four more people were trapped – six floors further down. Spotting its location, he began to sprint across the concrete toward it.

Halfway there, the sky fell in.

* * *

On board the Mole, Virgil and Gordon were almost hurled from their seats, the tunneling machine bucking wildly. Fighting to keep her on course, Virgil hit the comlink. "International Rescue to fire chief," he said urgently. "What just happened?"

"We lost the rest of the building," the fire chief's voice strained voice came back. "The roof of the parking structure just completely caved in."

_Scott…_ Virgil felt sick. He glanced at Gordon and saw his fears mirrored in his brother's eyes. "We've got to get these kids to the surface," he said, voice leaden.

Gordon nodded. "I know."

Virgil threw the Mole into overdrive.


	9. Chapter Nine

**

_NINE_

**

Bad weather had forced an hour's delay to the landing of Tally's flight from Sydney, and by the time the Fireflash's wheels finally touched ground on the runway at John F. Kennedy Airport, she was supremely grateful she didn't have to join the herd at baggage claim waiting for their luggage. There was something to be said for traveling light, even if it did mean you had to hit the nearest drugstore on the way home to replace a whole pile of necessary items.

She stopped by a concession on the way down the corridor from her gate, ordering a black coffee to drink in the cab. It was going to be cold outside. As she sipped the hot liquid, she saw a group of people standing around a vidscreen above the checkout stand. Glancing up at the screen, she recognized Ned Cook, the star reporter of rival network NTBS. The reporter in her made her step closer to hear what he was saying.

"…And we bring you the latest report from the building collapse in New Jersey. Fire Chief Ron Kovacs is here with us to give us the update. Chief Kovacs, has it been confirmed that a car bomb in the parking structure under the building was the initial cause of this disaster?"

Chief Kovacs looked tired and uncomfortable, glancing over his shoulder as if desperately wanting to be back at the scene. "That's what we believe, yes."

"And there are several people still trapped in an elevator ten floors down?"

"That's correct."

Ned addressed the camera directly, lowering his voice to draw the audience in. _Nice touch_, Tally thought grudgingly, knowing the tricks all too well. "Minutes ago, NTBS was the first network to bring you the news that International Rescue is on the scene, and they have already rescued twelve of the trapped people, ten of whom were young children. And only just in time, because the rest of the building has now come down and the parking structure roof has caved in, raising concerns for the safety of the remaining four people. We have also heard reports that one of International Rescue's operatives may have been down in the parking structure when the roof fell. We wish him luck – his buddies are on their way back down there at this very moment."

Tally didn't wait to hear any more. She swung around and raced out of the concession, heading for the charter terminal and a helijet that would take her to New Jersey.

* * *

It seemed to take forever for the thunder of falling rubble to stop. Knocked to his back on the ground, stunned by the concussive force of the collapse, Scott threw his arms up over his facemask and braced himself for the worst.

But by some miracle, nothing hit him. When the sound finally subsided, he cautiously withdrew his arms, and realized immediately why he had been spared. There was something very big and dark six inches above his face, and he reached up and felt the rough surface of an immense concrete slab. _Tracy, you are one lucky son of a bitch_, he thought, realizing that if the concrete monster above him hadn't smacked down on to other pieces of rubble before it reached him, he would have been smashed to pieces.

He didn't seem to be hurt anywhere – another break. He reached out experimentally with his hands, trying to see if there was a way out from under the slab. He felt the bag of gear and gas masks beside him, and what seemed to be an open space to the right of it. Slowly, carefully, he began to slide in that direction.

A piece of rubble shifted without warning somewhere to his left, raining concrete dust down on his arm. Scott froze, holding his breath. Nothing. He slowly moved his head in that direction, checking it out. It was too dark to see anything but vague shapes. He slid his hand inside the equipment bag, feeling around until his fingers closed on the cold metal cylinder of a flashlight. Very slowly he aimed the flashlight to his left.

A cold chill crawled up his spine. The entire slab was supported on that side only by one small, crumbling, precariously balanced chunk of concrete. One false move and it would all come crashing down.

"Scott? Can you hear me? Come in, Scott!" Scott almost jumped out of his skin. Breathing hard, forcing himself to calm down, he very carefully pulled in his left arm and raised the wrist communicator to where he could speak into it. "Virgil?" he whispered.

He could hear immense relief in his brother's voice. "Scott, thank God. Are you all right?"

Scott glanced up at the concrete slab. "Uh, yes – for right now, anyway."

"What does that mean?" Virgil asked suspiciously. "And why are you whispering?"

"Did you reach the elevator yet?"

"Wait a minute, Scott…what's your location?"

"Never mind me. I'll be fine. You have to get those people out, Virg."

"You're on the way. We can pick you up…"

"No!" He almost shouted. "You can't bring the Mole anywhere near me. I'll dig myself out…you go for that elevator, that's an order. You hear me?"

"Scott," Virgil said slowly, "What the hell is going on? What do you mean, don't bring the Mole…"

Realization dawned. "You're worried about the vibration… You're trapped under something."

Scott closed his eyes. "Virgil, you're wasting time. You have to get masks to those people. Then you can come and get me. I'll be okay…" …_As long as nothing else moves, _he finished silently.

"You're a lousy liar, Scott. Not a chance I'm leaving you there. The whole parking structure is unstable. The rest of it could come crashing down at any moment.

"Virg…"

"_No_, Scott, and that's final!" Virgil had that immovable-object tone in his voice. "We're going to triangulate on your position with or without your help. Now tell me what your status is."

Scott sighed. "Okay, Virg. I'll make you a deal. You can't bring the Mole anywhere near me because there's one mother of a slab of concrete balanced about six inches from my face. The best thing for you to do is take her down on the other side of the elevator bank. Chances are the stairs around it have survived the cave-in. Gordon can get the people out of the elevator, and you can come up the stairs and get me. Better bring the hydraulic jacks."

"F.A.B.," Virgil acknowledged. "Hang in there. I'll be with you before you know it."

Scott glanced at the small piece of stone that was all that stood between him and finding out how a bug felt when it was squashed. He hoped he was right about the stairs.

* * *

"Scott was right about the stairs," Virgil said, reappearing through the stairwell door. "They're still in one piece."

Gordon glanced at him, knowing how anxious he was to go and get their brother out from under the rubble. "Help me with this, Virg…"

Virgil hesitated, torn, looking back toward the stairs. "The quicker we get this done, the quicker we can go after Scott," Gordon said. "You know what he'll do to us if we don't get these people out first."

That brought the ghost of a smile to the corners of Virgil's mouth. He nodded and crossed back to the elevator, where Gordon was inserting hydraulic expanders into the crack between the doors. The high levels of gas made it impossible to do what they normally would have done – cut through the doors using oxyhydnite or lasers.

Virgil grabbed the remote control and waited until Gordon was satisfied with the position of the expanders. When his younger brother gave him the nod, he flipped the switch.

They watched as the powerful jaws began to open, like a crocodile in reverse, pushing outward and slowly prying apart the elevator doors. Metal groaned and crumpled, but the expanders kept moving relentlessly, widening the gap until Gordon could step forward and shine a flashlight inside. "Doesn't look good," he reported. We'd better get them out of here quick."

Finally the opening had progressed enough that he could squeeze inside. Virgil came up to the doors, automatically checking the expanders for stability. He watched as Gordon crouched among the three men and one woman crumpled unconscious on the floor of the fallen elevator, checking pulses. "This one's dead," Gordon said at last, regretfully. "Fall probably killed him. The other three are alive."

Virgil fetched the stretcher as his brother did a quick triage, assessing injuries. Working with a synergy born of long experience, they swiftly stabilized the victims and carried them to the Mole. Virgil brought a body bag back for the dead man.

He paused at the rear hatch as Gordon slid the bag inside. Gordon looked up, seeing the barely contained anxiety on his brother's face. "Go on," he said. "Take the jacks and the gear. I'll be back down in no time."

Virgil hesitated. "Don't worry," Gordon reassured him. "It's a straight reverse back up the bore hole from here. Now go get Scott."

"Thanks, Gordo." Virgil grabbed the gear he needed.

"Hey, Virg…" Gordon's voice called from the forward compartment.

"Yeah?"

"Which one of these is reverse gear again?"

Virgil automatically opened his mouth to respond – then caught himself, rolling his eyes. "Get out of here."

Gordon's laugh came back. Virgil shook his head, picked up the gear and backed out of the hatch. "Clear!"

The hatch slid shut and the engines fired up as he turned and raced back toward the stairwell.

Virgil was up the six flights of stairs in seconds. Luckily, as Scott had predicted, the area around the elevators had survived pretty well intact, and the only problem he had to encounter was a couple of stuck doors that required him to kick them open. When he emerged on the fourth level, he stopped, whistling softly. The floor of the level was completely obliterated by fallen rubble. He could see the night sky through several places in the collapsed roof, which had once been four stories higher up.

He raised his wrist communicator. "Scott, can you hear me?"

Scott's voice came back almost immediately. Virgil could hear the strain in it. "Hey, Virg. Thought you forgot all about me."

"Well, we grabbed some dinner first," Virgil grinned. "You know how crabby I get when I'm hungry."

"It'll be your last meal if you don't get your ass over here right now," Scott said.

Virgil frowned, becoming abruptly serious as he heard the edge in his brother's voice. That sounded like more than just claustrophobia. "Scott…what is it…?"

"Just get over here, Virgil. Quick."

But where was here? Virgil swept the rubble with the portable thermal scanner, turning in a slow half circle until the screen jumped, shivered and cleared, then registered the shadowy green image of a prone body underneath the concrete.

"Got you on the scan, Scott," Virgil said. "Be there in a flash."

He began to make his way as swiftly as possible across the piles of rubble. It was difficult going, the concrete stacked so loosely in places that it collapsed under his weight, and he was glad of the gloves that protected his hands from being sliced up every time he slipped and almost fell. At long last he arrived at the slab that had both protected and trapped his brother.

"Scott, this is one mother of a rock," he said, mentally estimating the slab to be at least thirty feet long and two feet thick. "You got real lucky."

"Tell me something I don't know," Scott grunted. "Now, come around to my left."

Virgil checked his scanner and figured out which direction Scott was leading him in. He circled the slab and dropped to his knees, shining his flashlight as he peered down underneath. He saw immediately what Scott had seen – the small chunk of crumbling concrete that was the only thing that stood between his brother and extremely certain death. "Christ," he said, anger flaring. "You should have told me, Scott."

"Your mission was to get those people out," Scott said. "I had to make sure you did that first."

"But Scott, you could have been…"

Scott cut him short. "Virg, do you mind if we argue about this later? I kinda need you to get a jack under this hunk of rock before it crushes me to death…okay?"

Virgil swallowed, controlling his anger with an effort. "Okay," he said as he pulled out the portable hydraulic jacks. "But we're going to talk about it, I can promise you that."

The sudden, violent vibration threw him to the ground, knocking the breath out of him, tearing the jacks out of his grasp. The roar of falling rubble pounded at his ears as he lay prone beside the slab, arms over his head. He watched in horror as the small chunk of concrete the slab was balanced upon wobbled on its axis, crumbling around the edges.

The flashlight had rolled under the slab and was pointed at Scott, frozen in helplessness, braced for the blow that would end his existence. The two brothers stared at each other, so near and yet so far, unable to do anything but wait for the slab to fall.

And pray.

But it didn't fall. Slowly the noise died away to silence. "Virgil," Scott said, unable to keep the fear out of his voice any more, "Get me out of here. Please."

Virgil scrambled after the hydraulic jacks, grabbing them and shoving them into the space either side of the concrete chunk. "I've got you, Scott," he said, his own voice shaking a little. "It's gonna be okay. I'm gonna get you out."

He held his breath until the jacks rose into place, supporting the weight of the slab and taking the pressure off the crumbling chunk of concrete. "Gordon," he almost shouted into his wrist communicator, "Where the hell are you? I need you down here right now!"

* * *

The helijet kicked up clouds of concrete dust as it settled to earth a hundred yards from the collapsed building. Tally ducked under the rotor blades as she cleared the landing zone, swinging around to give the pilot the high sign. The jets roared back into life and the helijet lifted up again into the cold black sky.

Tally scanned the area. She spotted the WNN satellite truck, parked only yards from Ned Cook's crew from NTBS and several other competitive networks, all of them with reporters shooting standups and wraparounds while they waited for something to happen.

Avoiding the crews, Tally headed straight across the rubble-strewn ground toward the police barriers. She could see the firemen and other emergency personnel all gathered near an interesting computerized console that didn't look at all familiar. Then, some way beyond, her eyes picked out something silhouetted against the darkness that did. The huge green bulk of Thunderbird Two.

_Gotcha._ The old excitement stirred in her gut. Beaten down by the continual mistreatment and resistance of her bureau chief, she hadn't felt this way about a story in a long time. _This time_, she thought. _This time's gonna be different._

The old excitement stirred in her gut. Beaten down by the continual mistreatment and resistance of her bureau chief, she hadn't felt this way about a story in a long time. 

Something was happening over by the immense pile of mangled concrete and steel that used to be a forty-story building. A shout went up from the firemen and they went running across toward it. Now Tally could see it – a plume of what looked like smoke rising from a large circular hole. There was an unfamiliar looking machine parked right above it, the upper part tilted down so that it pointed toward the ground. It didn't look like any fire department equipment she had ever seen. As she ran toward it she saw something start to emerge from the hole. She stopped and watched in awe as International Rescue's sixty foot long boring machine reversed smoothly up on to her waiting trolley, the lights of the emergency vehicles glinting off the rapidly spiraling metal of her drilling bit.

The Mole locked into place on the trolley and the hydraulics lowered back into the horizontal position. Seconds later the rear cabin door slid open and Tally saw a man in International Rescue blue start to help four other people out and down on to the ground. She caught a glimpse of red-gold hair... Yes! He had been the one who had helped organize the survivors of the _Spirit of Nantucket_ when they had reached the USS _Colin Powell_.

Seconds later she was forced to scramble out of the way as an ambulance screamed across the parking lot toward the Mole, lights flashing. When she looked back, the International Rescue man had disappeared, and the Mole was on the move again, powering back down off her tilting trolley into the bowels of the rubble field.

Tally glanced back over towards the interesting looking computerized console. Between the bodies of the men that surrounded it she could catch the International Rescue logo and fragments of what looked like the words "MOBILE CONTROL." If there was anywhere else on this rescue site where an IR representative would be, her money would be on that console. But she couldn't safely approach it with all those men standing between her and it...and worse, she had no excuse to be this close to the danger zone unless she flashed her press credentials. And that she couldn't risk doing.

She paused a safe distance away, turning her back - she had learned in location situations in the past that people, even uniformed ones, usually didn't challenge you unless you made eye contact - rubbing her arms and wishing for another cup of that hot coffee, no matter how overbrewed the one from the airport had been. Now for the hurry up and wait that was always a part of the landscape for a field reporter.

After what the cold made seem a lot longer time than it really was, she heard the engines of the Mole again. She looked around, saw the massive machine settling back on to its trolley. Then the caterpillar tracks ground into life and the thirty ton boring machine swung its bulk around in her direction, clumps of dirt and concrete dropping off in its wake.

She had almost reached the Mobile Control console by the time the Mole reached her. Unexpectedly, instead of passing her, the vehicle came to a halt only feet away. The cabin door opened and two men climbed out, both of them in International Rescue uniforms. The first one was unfamiliar, tall and handsome, with chestnut colored hair and warm brown eyes. The second man she knew.

"Hello, Scott," she said.

Surprised to hear his name, he looked directly around at her. She was completely unprepared for her reaction. The breath jammed in her throat, her face suddenly hot and flushed. She could feel her heartbeat pounding in her ears.

She'd forgotten how blue his eyes were.

The moment seemed to hang there in space, stretching into infinity, despite the alarm bells that had started ringing somewhere in the back of her mind. With a tremendous effort of will she forced time to start moving forward again, stamping hard on the unwelcome moment of weakness. Switching on what she hoped was a friendly but neutral smile, she stuck out her hand. "Tally Somerville. We were never formally introduced."

Scott was still staring at her. Virgil looked from one to the other. He waved a hand in front of his brother's face. "Scott?"

_This isn't fair,_ Scott thought.

Several times since he had left the hospital in Sydney, he had found his thoughts drifting back to this woman. He had wondered about her…where she was from, how she was doing…who she was. He had told himself that it was much better he didn't even know her name…after all, he couldn't tell her his. And in any case, he wasn't likely to ever see her again.

But now, against all the odds, here she was standing right in front of him.

Virgil's voice snapped him out of the trance-like state her appearance had produced. He realized with a start that he was being incredibly rude, and reached automatically to shake her hand.

The electricity shot right up his arm.

She jumped visibly, dropping his hand like it had burned her. "Static," she said quickly, with a brittle laugh. "It's a killer in this cold weather, huh."

Before he could respond, she had swung left toward Virgil. Scott stood there, feeling strangely bereft.

Tally had no idea what had just happened to her. _Static,_ she thought firmly. Her first instinct had been correct...it _had_ to be static. The alternative...well, that kind of thing only happened in books. Her mother had drilled that into her enough times, back when when she'd still been young enough to want to believe otherwise.

It had shaken her, though...more than she wanted to admit. She turned to the second man, offering her hand in greeting in a slightly desperate attempt to salvage the rapidly deteriorating situation. Shaking hands with this one was, thank God, a much less interesting experience, although he was quite a looker in his own right. "You know, if there are any more like you two back at the base, you should consider doing a calendar."

He grinned at her, clearly a little embarrassed. "Thanks…I think."

_God, why do I make such stupid jokes under pressure,_ she thought in frustration, plunging on. "You're probably wondering who I am. You guys rescued me from a sinking yacht a few days ago. The _Spirit of Nantucket_. I saw the news report that you were here and I just had to come over and say a proper thank you."

Virgil glanced sideways at Scott, realizing that his usually smooth and charming brother still hadn't uttered a word. "Oh, that's really not necessary," he said. "It's all part of the job."

"Well, we're all very grateful you were there for us," she said. "I can't stop thinking about the guy who got hurt… Is he going to be okay?"

"He'll be fine," Virgil said. "A few weeks to recuperate and he'll be as good as new."

"I'm so glad," she smiled, sounding relieved. "He could have been…well, I'm glad, anyway."

_Stop it,_ she told herself severely,_ you're babbling._

Virgil glanced again at Scott, taking in how he was looking at Tally. _Oh, boy,_ he thought, _when did this happen?_ "Well," he said, "I guess I'll go and load the Mole…okay, Scott?"

"Uh-huh."

Virgil smiled, realizing that his brother had no idea what he had just said. He nodded at Tally. "Nice to meet you."

"Thanks again," she said. "For what you did out there."

She watched him go back into the Mole's cabin. The engines started up and the boring machine trundled forward again on her caterpillar tracks toward Thunderbird Two.

Left alone with Scott, Tally took a deep breath and forced herself to look back toward him. "Wow, you International Rescue boys sure have some great equipment."

The startled look on his face made her blush right up to the roots of her hair. "Oh, God, that's not what I meant, I swear…"

To her relief, though, he grinned. "We get that a lot, Usually right after people see the Mole, for some reason."

She looked up at the twinkle in his expression, then at the retreating drilling machine with its huge spiral bit, and before she knew it they were both laughing until their sides hurt. "Thanks," Scott said at last, wiping the tears from his eyes. "I needed that."

"The news report said one of you got trapped down there," she said, sobering. "It was you, wasn't it."

She didn't know how she was so sure...but somehow, she knew she was right.

His eyebrow raised a little in surprise, but he nodded. "Virgil got me out. He doesn't always listen to me, thank God."

"That was Virgil?" she turned toward Thunderbird Two, watching as the Mole climbed the ramp into Pod 3. "I remember that name…he was the pilot out there when you rescued us."

"Yes," he said. "He's phenomenal. How he held that ship steady in those winds for all those hours is beyond me."

"You're close," she said, hearing the warmth in his voice. "I can tell. He must be a good friend."

He smiled. "You could say that."

"So what do you do…besides pulling people like me out of sinking ships and burrowing under collapsed buildings, I mean."

Scott nodded across the rubble pile. She followed his eyes and saw the sleek silver rocket plane parked on her struts on the far side. "Thunderbird One," she said, recognizing the craft she had last seen taking off from the deck of the _Colin Powell_. "Yours?"

"Uh-huh."

"She's beautiful," Tally said.

"Yes, she is," he agreed...but he wasn't looking at the ship.

Something in his voice made her glance back at him, and for a brief moment she caught the unguarded expression in his eyes. She tried to take a breath but her lungs had somehow decided to stop working. "Listen," she said quickly, trying to push past the sudden feeling that she was hanging by one hand over a hundred-foot cliff. "I really want to thank you properly for saving my life. My brother and I wouldn't be here today if it hadn't been for you."

"Your brother?" Scott realized that this must have been the man he had seen her with in the hospital in Sydney. He felt a little guilty that the revelation made him so happy.

"Yes…he's in Sydney. They had to operate on his head injury, but they say he'll make a full recovery."

"I'm glad," Scott said sincerely. "So…do you live around here?"

She tilted her head, raising her eyebrows at the leading question. "You mean, do I come here often?"

He grinned. "Something like that."

"I live in New York. I just got back – I was coming through JFK when I saw the newsfeed. I grabbed a helijet and came straight here."

"Why?"

She was taken aback for a moment, until she saw that the question was innocent and genuine. "Like I said…I wanted to thank you. I never saw you again after you fished Mike and me out of the water. I looked for you, but…"

She trailed off, lost in the look in his eyes. The crackle of Scott's wrist communicator made them both jump. "Scott from Thunderbird Two. Estimate takeoff in five minutes."

Tally stared at the ground, suddenly feeling like an awkward teenager. "F.A.B.," Scott responded automatically, never taking his eyes off her averted face. "I'll be right behind you."

"Gordon's getting Mobile Control loaded for you," Virgil said. "We thought you'd appreciate a few more minutes to…well, you know."

Scott smiled. "Thanks, Virg. I owe you one."

"I'll put it on your tab." He could hear Virgil's grin as his brother signed off.

Scott glanced over at the waiting Thunderbird One, where he could now see Gordon supervising the loading of the mobile communications equipment. "Well," he said. "I should get going."

"Of course," Tally said quickly, "I don't want to keep you. I mean, you probably need to be off rescuing somebody else…or something… Right?

"Or something," he agreed. He was almost painfully aware of how much he didn't want to leave right now…but he couldn't think of a single reasonable excuse not to. _It's better this way,_ he told himself, as he had done at least a dozen times since he had seen her in the hospital in Sydney. _What kind of a relationship could you have with this girl, when you can't even tell her your last name?_

_Relationship._ The choice of word came out of nowhere, startling him.

"Look," she was saying, "I want you to promise me that if you're ever in New York, you'll at least let me buy you dinner. I know this great place where the steaks are so good you'll dream about them for months afterwards…and you don't even have to wear your uniform. Deal?"

He smiled through the ache in his chest, wanting to pretend just for a moment that he was a normal guy with a normal life, who could actually take this beautiful girl out to dinner and a night on the town and see where it led them. "Deal."

But she could see in his eyes that this was goodbye. Whether he really wanted to or not, he was going to do what International Rescue did so well…disappear into the sunset without leaving a single trace behind him.

"Goodbye, Scott," she said quietly.

She knew, he realized…and her words made him feel very empty. "Goodbye, Tally." He thought about reaching for her hand…then decided against it.

She was suddenly aware again of the bitter cold as he turned and walked away. Shoving her hands deep into her coat pockets, she stood there and watched him as he crossed the rubble field toward Thunderbird One. But he never once looked back.

* * *

Over by Thunderbird One, Gordon had finished loading the equipment and was saying goodbye to the grateful Fire Chief and his crew. He turned as he heard Ned Cook's greeting. "Gordon! Long time no see!"

"Hey, Ned, good to see you. How's it going?" They had known each other since Gordon had been instrumental in rescuing the news reporter and his cameraman from certain death two years ago, when the planned move of the Empire State Building had gone terribly wrong. The Tracys and Ned Cook had gotten off to a rocky start, with Scott having to chase the reporter in Thunderbird One and forcibly erase a videotape Ned's cameraman had taken of the ship against his wishes. Then he and Gordon had saved the man's life and Ned had become their biggest supporter, even stopping other news crews from taking unauthorized pictures until Brains had invented the image jamming equipment they now used.

"Great rescue, as usual," Ned said. "Love that Mole. Must be fun to drive. What does she get…five on the freeway?"

"Two in the city," Gordon grinned. "But she corners like a dream."

Say, Gordon, can I ask you something?" Ned said. "If you guys were going to give an exclusive, you'd come to your old friend Ned first, wouldn't you?"

Gordon gave him a quizzical look. "Can't see it happening, Ned… It's that hell freezing over thing, you know… But sure, of course we would. You know that."

"Okay," Ned smiled. "Just needed to hear that."

Gordon shook his head as Ned left, smiling at the odd conversation. He turned away, never seeing Ned's hard stare across the rubble field at his elder brother. And even had he seen it, he wouldn't have realized that the newsman was wondering why he had just seen Scott having a long conversation with Tally Somerville of the World News Network.


	10. Chapter Ten

**

_TEN_

**

"Base from Thunderbird One," Scott said into the comlink, watching the blip that was Tracy Island slide on to the edge of his radar screen. "What's the situation?"

Tin-Tin's voice came back in his ears. "We docked two hours ago, Scott. Penelope and Parker came with us. Elizabeth is with Alan and Mr. Tracy in the infirmary."

"How is he?"

"Doing just fine," she said. "You know Alan. He's already complaining about not being allowed to get out of bed."

"He's still on the morphine," Scott said. "That'll change, trust me." He glanced at the radar scope. "Tin-Tin, I'm ten minutes out and Virgil's thirty minutes behind me. We've got to come up with a way to land these birds without Elizabeth seeing us."

"All taken care of, Scott. Operation cover up is already in effect. Your father and Brains are going to take Elizabeth down to the engine testing bay and show her the USV3000."

Scott broke into a smile. "Brilliant," he said. "She'll never hear us with the noise-canceling headphones on, and she'll put down any vibrations she feels to the engine testing."

"Precisely," Tin-Tin said. "I'm going to run your landing from launch control. Take the monorail straight here when you land. When Virgil and Gordon are safely home we'll give Mr. Tracy the all-clear."

"F.A.B.," Scott acknowledged. "See you in eight point five minutes."

"F.A.B." Tin-Tin signed off. Scott switched frequencies to relay her instructions to his brothers.

Eight and a half minutes later, Thunderbird One arrived over the entrance to her launch bay, retros igniting to swing her gracefully through ninety degrees until her tail was pointing straight down. Scott fired the boosters, lowering her with smooth, split-second precision until the electromagnetic seals locked her back into place on her launch trolley. As the swimming pool slid back into place above him, he pushed forward on the controls and the sleek silver rocket began the trip back up the ramp to her hangar. He had changed into his civilian clothes before she came to a halt at the top.

"All clear?" he asked Tin-Tin.

"All clear," she confirmed. "Virgil is eighteen minutes out."

"F.A.B. Be there in five."

He ran swiftly through the post flight checks, watching as the gantry locked into place and the lights changed to a steady green. The last item on the list was initiating the routine diagnostics program – it would run for about twenty minutes after he was gone, checking every component under Thunderbird One's sophisticated hood. Anything that needed fixing or replacing would be identified instantly, sending a message to both central control and the inventory system. International Rescue simply couldn't afford for any of its machines to be running at less than one hundred percent efficiency, every time they went out. After all, as Brains had often said, it wasn't as if they could call AAA if they broke down by the side of the road.

Scott flipped the hatch control and exited his ship. Instead of extending the walkway bridge that would take him back into the villa's living room, he turned left and took the gantry elevator down to the monorail. In less than three minutes he had arrived at launch control, set into the cliff above Thunderbird Two's hangar, overlooking the runway.

Tin-Tin was waiting for him there. "Virgil sounded a little on edge when he called in. Did anything happen out there?"

Scott's eyes slid away, gazing out through the reinforced observation windows at the empty tropical sky, searching for signs of his brothers' return. "Nothing much. Same old same old, you know."

She watched him, knowing him well enough to realize that he was hiding something – but the same familiarity also making her realize that he wasn't going to tell her what it was. She had learned quickly that with Scott, what you saw wasn't necessarily what you got. On the surface he was always friendly, always easygoing, always ready with a piece of advice or a shoulder to cry on. Underneath he was sometimes as tightly wound as a coiled spring. He had black moods, she knew, that he did his best to hide from the rest of the family. Often he would take one of the Tracy jets and fly his heart out for hours, straining the plane to her limits, putting her through wild aerobatic maneuvers that nearly tore the wings off. He would always come back feeling better.

"Base from Thunderbird Two," Virgil's voice came over the comlink.

Scott hit the switch. "Go ahead, Thunderbird Two."

"Approaching the outer marker, Scott."

Scott glanced at Tin-Tin. She crossed to the launch control computer console, her fingers flying over the keys. "Thunderbird Two, this is launch control. I have you on my scope. Area is clear of traffic."

"F.A.B.," Virgil responded.

Listening as she fed Virgil wind speed and direction, Scott picked up field glasses from the table and trained them on the sky. He could finally see the approaching speck that was Thunderbird Two, growing steadily larger in the bright blue sky.

"Launch control from Thunderbird Two, turning on base leg."

"F.A.B., Thunderbird Two," Tin-Tin acknowledged automatically, eyes on the display in front of her. "You are clear to land."

Virgil had been uncharacteristically quiet on the way back from New Jersey. Normally Gordon could count on fairly lively conversation on some subject or other – with Virgil, you never knew whether you were going to wind up talking about turbochargers or Impressionist painters. But this time Gordon had spent much of the trip homejust watching the scenery, after a couple of abortive attempts to start the ball rolling. Virgil hadn't even been willing to discuss the biggest scoop of all – Scott and that woman he'd been talking to, the one he'd apparently met at the Southern Oceans Cup rescue and had never mentioned to anyone. When Gordon had brought up the subject, Virgil had simply shaken his head, saying that he didn't know anything, and they would have to ask Scott when they got back. Knowing how close his two eldest brothers were, Gordon wondered if he was telling him the truth. Either that, or Scott hadn't entrusted the information even to Virgil, which made it even more interesting.

He had no idea of what was really eating at Virgil's gut – Elizabeth Grant. Every mile closer to the Island meant a mile closer to a whole week spent in the same house as the woman he loved, and while that thought should have made him the happiest man on earth, this was the worst possible circumstance it could be happening under. She had no idea his family ran the most famous secret organization in the world – International Rescue. And his family had no idea that he and Elizabeth had been in love from the first moment they met.

He could still remember exactly how he had felt that day. She was paying her first visit to the Island, and he had been the one designated to go down to the jetty to meet her seaplane. He remembered being impressed by her landing, smooth as silk, the skids kicking up almost no spray at all. He knew nothing at all about her, only her name, and that she had bought the practice from their former doctor, whose own failing health had necessitated giving up a life of flying from island to island. And then, as she stepped out of the plane and accepted his help jumping from the skid to the jetty, he looked in her eyes and suddenly knew everything he needed to know. It wasn't until later that he found out that it had happened for her at exactly the same moment.

He had reacted with typical male confusion at first, not sure whether to follow her around the Island like a puppy or avoid her completely. But by the time she left later that day, he knew he was going to see her again.

He lasted two whole days before taking the Tracy jet and heading for her New Zealand home base. He didn't call ahead…he didn't want to know what she would say, and he had no idea how to explain himself to her. For once in his life, Virgil Tracy was completely lost for words.

Elizabeth was seeing patients when he arrived at her surgery, and he waited in the outer room, growing more and more nervous by the second – wondering what the hell he was doing there, but unable to leave. She came out after a while, talking to a departing patient. He stood up, she turned and saw him – and the way she looked at him instantly wiped all the anxiety from his mind. He crossed to the office and closed the door behind him, and then she was in his arms and they were kissing. He stayed with her that night, and by morning he knew he was in love like he'd never been before in his life.

Everything had gone smoothly for the first three months, Virgil fooling his family with the excuse that an old shoulder injury had flared up again, necessitating regular trips to the mainland for therapy. They had spent many lazy late afternoons together at her place on the beach, cooking, walking on the sand with Sampson, her ten year old Golden Retriever, and making love far into the night. Virgil was completely, utterly happy.

And then she was invited by his father to make another visit to the Island. At this point unable to even contemplate the idea of giving her up, Virgil knew he was in trouble. He couldn't tell his father they were involved, and he couldn't tell Elizabeth why he couldn't tell him. Because of his father's iron clad insistence on total secrecy and security for their organization, it was impossible to bring new people into the fold unless they already worked for the family in a capacity where they knew the score. Because strangers had family and friends, and sooner or later something was bound to slip out. Virgil assumed his brothers, like him, found ways to work around this problem. After all, it wasn't likely to become a big deal unless one of them became seriously involved and wanted to take a relationship to the next step.

Like now. Virgil winced as he thought about the night when he'd first outright lied to her, the day before her visit. He'd told her that he thought it was better that they not let his family know yet that they were an item. Hating himself for causing the look of hurt and confusion that had immediately come into her eyes, he had plunged on, explaining that his father was extremely paranoid about strangers (which, after all, was at least partly true), and that he didn't want to see her subjected to a painful and embarrassing background investigation. He had come up with the idea because he knew how important her privacy was to her, and she had seemed to accept the explanation easily enough. She was the model of discretion the next afternoon and evening at Tracy Island, even shaking his hand when she arrived and politely asking him how he was doing. And she'd only slapped his butt once, when no one was looking – grinning at his mock-scandalized expression.

It had taken him a long time to get to sleep that night. It was beginning to dawn on him what a tangled web of deception his life was becoming. But he knew he couldn't go back to living without her, so he would have to find a way to make it work, somehow.

"Uh, Virgil…" Gordon's voice penetrated his thoughts, bringing him back to the present.

"Yeah, Gordo?"

"You're about to overshoot the Island…"

_Oh, shit._ Virgil hastily checked his instruments and hauled the wheel over. "Ah…launch control from Thunderbird Two, turning on final approach."

"Little slow on the trigger today, Thunderbird Two," Scott's voice came back. "Everything okay up there, Virg?"

Virgil scowled, but he kept it out of his voice. "Everything's fine, Scott," he said. "Just a little tired."

Back at launch control, Scott watched the massive transport plane drop her port wing and bank toward him, floating down out of the sky as if her current payload was nowhere near the four hundred eighty seven tons he knew it to be. Something was up with his brother, and under normal circumstances he would have taken him aside later and tried to find out what it was. But right now he had secrets of his own, and he didn't want Virgil invoking the reciprocity rule they'd had with each other since they were children on their grandparents' farm in Kansas. Their words echoed down the years to him – _I'll tell you mine if you'll tell me yours…_

And they always had, until now. Scott felt a chill touch him, as if something had shifted, somewhere, and he was feeling the winds of change as they began to stir. He shook off the feeling with an effort, concentrating on watching Thunderbird Two sweep gracefully down toward him, mentally calling off the airspeed with his brother. Tin-Tin flipped a switch and the palm trees flattened outwards, clearing the space for the green giant's one hundred eighty foot wingspan. There was that moment when Scott always held his breath, when she seemed to stop, impossibly, in mid-air – right before her landing jets fired in a roar of smoke and flame. Then Virgil turned her until her tail was facing the cliffside, lowering her to the runway so smoothly that she seemed to sink to earth on a cloud. The cliff face opened behind her as she backed up toward it, and then she was gone from view beneath him. "Hangar doors closed," Tin-Tin announced after a moment. "We're all clear."

They headed for the hangar to rendezvous with Virgil and Gordon.

* * *

It was always hard for Virgil when Elizabeth was on the Island, especially when it had been several days since he had last seen her. She came into the lounge with Jeff and Lady Penelope, looking fresh and beautiful in mint green and white, and all he wanted to do was take her into his arms. But he couldn't, forced instead to play the game, smiling and going along with the jokes and enduring his brothers' insistent attempts at flirting with the woman they didn't know was already his. Every once in a while she would flick a glance his way, the look in her eyes telling him that this was just as difficult for her – only succeeding in making the torture worse. At least today, Scott wasn't joining in the fun as much as he usually did – and that made Virgil's thoughts turn instantly to what he had seen in the rubble field in New Jersey. He knew his brother inside out, and the look on his face when he saw that woman…what had her name been…Tally?…well, that had been a dead giveaway. Whether or not he was prepared to admit it, Scott had it bad for her.

Under normal circumstances, Virgil would have pursued it, tried to find out what was going on. But he had big problems of his own to deal with right now.

He glanced at the clock. Not even halfway through the afternoon yet. God, this was going to be a long day.

* * *

Tally swung through the New York offices of the World News Network bright and early that morning, dead tired yet strangely energized by the events of the previous night. Despite knowing with absolute certainty that the mysterious pilot from International Rescue who had affected her so profoundly was not planning on pursuing their connection, she wasn't worried – because she was definitely planning on pursuing it from her end. On the way home from New Jersey, she had been a little annoyed at herself at first for allowing their overwhelming chemistry to impair her ability to think like an investigative journalist. But gradually it began to dawn on her that this could be turned to an incredible advantage. If she could find a way to keep her head on straight and not let him affect her judgement again.

She thought about Richard, and the cold rage settled in her stomach, making it ache. Yes, she could find a way.

She reached the news floor and was instantly mobbed by a horde of coworkers, all asking her for details of her ordeal in the Southern Oceans Cup race. Joss appeared after a few minutes and responded to her pleading look, rescuing her from the crowd and leading her away. She gave him a big, grateful hug. "I'm so glad I'm back in New York," she said.

"I'm so glad you're back in my time zone," he said. "No more two a.m. vidphone calls."

"Especially not when you have such attractive company," she grinned. "I'm surprised at you, Joss. I didn't think you dated anything less than a 38D."

He gave her a look. "You'd better go see Mason," he said. "He's been wanting to see you as soon as you got back."

Tally made a face, looking across the office to the boss's door at the far end. "I guess I'd better get it over with," she said reluctantly.

Joss nodded. "Don't worry. We'll find a way to glue you back together."

"Gee, thanks." Tally squared her shoulders and headed to face the music.

* * *

"How did you wind up in New Jersey last night?"

The words broadsided her, driving her prepared speech from her mind. Tally stared at her bureau chief, stunned. "How did…"

"Ned Cook saw you there. Talking to one of the International Rescue pilots."

Tally backpedaled, looking for a way to turn this around. "Exactly."

Dan Mason frowned. He was an unimposing man physically, short and balding, with a wide gap between his front teeth – but the force of his personality more than made up for it. He wore gold rimmed glasses that hid the intensity in his dark eyes. "What does that mean, Tally? Don't play games with me."

"I'm not playing games," Tally said, wishing for the seven hundredth time that year that their awkward personal history had not thrown up such a wall of hostility between them. Mason was one of the best in the business and under other circumstances would have been an ideal mentor for her. She just hadn't wanted it under the terms he had. "Look, I know you're mad at me because I didn't want to do the ocean rescue story."

"Mad at you is an understatement," Mason said, his voice deceptively calm.

"And I know rescue stories are getting big ratings right now. So here's what I propose. You really like Bellamie, right? You think she's ready for a big story. Let her do the ocean rescue piece. I'll give her everything she needs."

Mason stared at her for a long moment, thoughtfully. He sat down behind his desk. "You're dying, right?" he asked at last. "What is it…a brain tumor? Cancer?"

Tally burst out laughing. "No…God, no. Look, I get that you might find this hard to believe, but I want her to do the story. I'll even help her get subjects to be interviewed on camera about it. I just can't go on the air myself."

"What – you've suddenly developed stage fright? Cut to the chase, Tally."

Tally took a deep breath. "I think I'm in a position to break one of the biggest stories of the century," she said slowly. "The men behind International Rescue."

There was a long silence. Mason's eyes narrowed just a little. "And what makes you think you can succeed at breaking a story that big, when so many better reporters than you have tried and failed?"

"Because I have an advantage they didn't have. They fished me out of the ocean. I met them, Dan. I know four of them by sight, I know the first names of three of them, and…"

She paused, something deep inside her stirring in protest at where she was going next. She pushed it down with an effort. "And the pilot of Thunderbird One has a thing for me. I think that could turn out to be really useful."

"Are you sure?" Mason asked. "How do you know?"

Tally gave a short, bitter laugh. "You should know better than anyone how I'd know."

His eyes turned hard. He said, "All right. But I still don't understand why you can't do the ocean rescue story. It would be so much more powerful told from the viewpoint of an actual survivor."

Tally shook her head. "I can't go on camera, Dan. If I do, International Rescue will ID me as a reporter. Then it's all over."

She thought she finally saw a flicker of something positive…maybe even actual respect, cross his face. "They don't know?" he said, incredulously. "They don't know you're a reporter?"

She shook her head. "No. And I want to keep it that way."

"Damn right," he said. "Jesus Christ, this could actually work…"

Tally began to relax a little as she saw his mind begin to go into action, sinking his teeth into the idea. "Okay," he said, "Go see Bellamie. And then I want you to get with Jay Lambourne and start going over…"

"No," she said.

He stopped in mid-sentence "What do you mean, no?"

"I know Jay is our resident star," Tally said. "And I know he has a ton of experience I don't have. But I'm working alone on this or I'm not doing it at all."

"Don't be ridiculous, Tally. Work with Jay. He can help you…"

"Uh-uh. I'm sorry, Dan, but I don't trust you. I'm not going to let you take this story away from me. If you don't let me fly my own ship on this one, I swear I'll quit and take it to another network. I mean it."

Another long silence. And then, unexpectedly, Mason chuckled. "Well, what do you know…you may have the makings of a journalist yet, Ms. Somerville."

Tally managed a smile, calming down the quaking inside her with an effort. He would never know what it had cost her to stand her ground like that against him. But it had worked – she was over the first hurdle.

And she had managed to keep hidden her biggest ace in the hole. She had something in her back pocket that the world believed was impossible to obtain – a photograph of one of International Rescue's crew.

* * *

How Virgil made it through dinner, he would never know. Calling on the same reserves that made him able to hold Thunderbird Two steady in hurricane force winds hour after hour on a rescue, he had put his head down and endured the afternoon – making small talk down by the pool, pretending to read, wishing he could go to the hangar and tear apart an engine instead. But his elder brother's uncharacteristic lack of conversation was putting even more of a burden on him than usual to appear normal, making it impossible for him to escape. At least this way he could look at her, he told himself. And they would find a place to be alone soon enough. The Island wasn't _that_ small.

After dinner, Elizabeth announced that she was going down to the Infirmary to check on Alan. She caught Virgil's eyes briefly as she turned to leave, and his spirits lifted. He knew that look.

He left it a good fifteen minutes, feeling every second stretch into a year, before he finally got up from the table. He made a big show out of yawning, telling no one in particular that he was going to turn in for the evening. Well, he thought, at least that wasn't a lie. He just didn't plan on doing it in his own room. He avoided looking at Scott as he left, feeling his brother's eyes on his back. He had the distinct feeling that Scott knew something was going on with him…he just didn't know what, or why. But he also knew Scott was avoiding the third degree from him…so despite the weirdness of he and Scott having secrets from each other, at least they were both insuring each other safety from scrutiny, for now.

Alan was looking very pale, Virgil thought as he came into the Infirmary. "Hey, Sparky," he greeted him. "How're you doing?"

"Sparky?" Elizabeth raised her eyebrows.

"They used to call me that when I was a kid," Alan told her. "On account of my brilliant mind." He and Elizabeth were already working on weaning him off the morphine, and he was watching the clock across the room intently, taking shallow breaths, trying to endure the pain for another couple of minutes.

"On account of your always setting fire to everything," Virgil corrected him. "And you're still a kid."

"So you wanted to be an arsonist when you grew up?" Elizabeth said as she took Alan's wrist to check his pulse. "Interesting choice."

"No," Virgil smiled. "He was just a little too fond of his chemistry set."

Time. Thank God. Alan hit the morphine pump and relief flooded his body. "That rocket would have flown," he retorted. "If you and Scott had let me have enough gas to get it off the ground."

"That rocket wouldn't have flown if you'd had a tank the size of Greenland," Virgil said. "You just would have blown an even bigger hole in the front lawn."

"Oh dear," Elizabeth said, trying to suppress her laughter. "Did anyone get hurt?"

"No," Virgil said. "But he broke every window in the place, and the neighbors were picking Grandma's petunias out of their teeth for a couple of weeks."

"You know what's depressing about my life?" Alan said to no one in particular. "It's that no matter what happens, no matter what I do or where I go, I'm always going to have four brothers who are older than me."

"With long memories," Virgil grinned. "But look on the bright side, at least we won't let you kill yourself before your time."

"Hah, hah," Alan said. He was tiring now and the cotton wool cloud of the morphine was beginning to take over, slowing his speech.

Virgil glanced at Elizabeth, noticing the change. "He's okay, Virgil, really," she said reassuringly. "It'll just take him a while to get his strength back."

"Don't listen to her," Alan said, eyes closed now, head resting on the pillow. "I could take all of you right now, even without my ribs."

Virgil smiled at him. "Take it easy, kid. I'll come and see you in the morning."

"Uh-huh." Alan was nearly asleep. Virgil waited while Elizabeth finished up what she was doing, and they left the room together. They passed Tin-Tin in the corridor outside.

"How is he?" Tin-Tin asked.

"Resting," Elizabeth told her. "Don't keep him awake too long."

Tin-Tin blushed a little. "I just want to say goodnight."

Elizabeth grinned. "Go right ahead."

She nodded and passed them, going into the Infirmary.

"He's a good kid," Virgil said as they walked. "He gave us a real scare."

"He'll survive," she said. "Especially with a family like yours surrounding him. I've never seen so much love and support in one place in my life."

Virgil looked at her. The air was suddenly very thick. Elizabeth stared back at him. "Ah…Virgil…"

"Yeah?"

"Where are we going?"

"Who the hell cares…" Virgil yanked open the first door he saw, pulling Elizabeth with him.

It was a small room full of janitorial supplies. "Oh, Virgil, look…industrial toilet cleaner, and so much of it," Elizabeth said. "You sure know how to show a girl a good time."

"And don't you forget it." He kissed her hard, pressing her body up against the door. She made a soft moan in her throat and her arms came up to hold him tightly. When they finally broke the kiss they were both breathless. "God, I want you," he whispered into her hair. "I thought I'd never get you alone."

"Well, there won't be any "getting" in here," Elizabeth said. "I'm not making love to you in a closet full of Mr. Clean."

"Picky, picky," Virgil grinned, kissing her again. "Next you'll be wanting an actual bed."

"Oh, yes…if you want any actual sex tonight, that would be the first thing I'd look for."

"There's bound to be one of those somewhere on this Island," he said. "Even if I do have an embarrassingly large amount of brothers and other family members around here who seem to be occupying most of the furniture."

She laughed. "I love you."

He wrapped his arms around her again, capturing her mouth with his for a long time. "Virgil?" she said at last.

"Mmmm?" he was busy lifting her hair and kissing the side of her neck.

"I want to tell them."

"Tell who?" Virgil murmured, concentrating on raising goosebumps behind her ear with his tongue.

"Oh, that's _good_…" she shivered. "Your family, that's who. To hell with the background check. I just want to be able to hold your hand in front of your father."

Virgil froze. Suddenly making love was the furthest thing from his mind. "We can't," he said, straightening up slowly.

She smiled up at him. "Don't be silly. Of course we can. I don't care if he's paranoid – let him dig. I don't have anything to hide. Well, he's going to find out about that one episode in college, but honest, we were just good…"

She trailed off, suddenly aware of how serious his face was. "Virgil, what's going on?" she asked slowly.

He wanted to punch a wall. "We can't tell them," he said miserably. "And I can't tell you why."

She pushed away from him, wrapping her arms protectively across herself, the way she did when she was hurt and didn't want it to show. "That doesn't make any sense. What are you trying to say?"

"I'm trying to say that I can't tell you why I can't tell them," he said. "I know it sounds ridiculous…"

"It _is_ ridiculous," she said. "Are you saying there's something wrong with me? That I'm not good enough for them?"

"God, no," Virgil said hastily. "It's not you. It's…it's us…"

"Well, that makes even less sense," she said. "What are you, some kind of mercenary outfit on the run from the law, or something?"

"Definitely 'or something,'" he said, trying desperately to make light of it, hoping to somehow salvage this before it went too far.

But she wasn't having any of it. "Virgil, I'm not going to skulk around behind your family's backs any more," she said firmly. "I suggest you give it some thought tonight. While you're sleeping alone."

"Liz…"

She held up her hand to indicate that the matter was no longer up for discussion. "We'll talk about this in the morning."

She left the room without a backward glance. Virgil snatched up the nearest can and hurled it away from him so hard it stuck fast in the drywall.

* * *

"Did you know International Rescue has fan clubs?"

Joss stared at her over his beer glass. "You're kidding."

"Scout's honor. Internet sites, everything. Unofficial, of course. And people write to them all the time – they're like Santa Claus."

"Or the Easter Bunny," Joss offered.

Tally rolled her eyes. "Nobody writes to the Easter Bunny, Joss."

He shrugged. "So it's a bad example. Where do all the letters go?"

They were having lunch at Molly's, a favorite hangout of the WNN reporters. "That's the interesting part. The post office delivers them to this company in London."

"London, England?"

"Uh-huh," she nodded. "And get this…some of the letters actually get answered."

He paused as the waitress set down plates of sandwiches and french fries in front of them both. "By International Rescue, or by the company?"

"Why would this company just answer letters on their own?" she pointed out. "My guess is, it's a fan mail service – just like actors have. They're being paid by International Rescue to go through the letters, weed out the crazies, send the good ones on. Then they tell them how to respond."

"The key phrase being 'send them on,'" Joss said thoughtfully.

"Hmmm," Tally nodded. "The big question is, to where?"

"Answer that, and you can name your price," Joss said. "No one has ever been able to figure out where their base is."

"Give me time," she said, taking a bite of her sandwich. "Give me time."

* * *

It was always the same…the faces staring, the white corridors that all looked exactly alike. And then the door…the door he couldn't avoid…the door that stood in front of him like the entrance to hell.

He didn't want to go in there. The feeling of dread was choking him, making his heart pound so hard his chest hurt. But he couldn't change his fate. Slowly the door pulled him toward it, step by reluctant, stumbling step, and he looked down at his hands and they were covered in blood all the way to the elbows, and there was blood all over his shirt and his…

"No!" Scott woke with the sound of his own shout ringing in his ears.

He sat up in bed, awareness returning, taking in his surroundings. It was all right. He was home.

Thank God his suite of rooms, like all of the suites on the Island, were soundproofed. It had been a solution to the obvious problem of privacy when so many adults – some of them, like himself, already long accustomed to independence – were living together in such a small area. Scott wiped the sweat from his forehead. He needed a drink.

He was all the way across to the cabinet in the living room of his suite when he remembered he had finished the last of his bottle of Scotch right before going out on the Southern Oceans Cup rescue. He pulled on a pair of shorts and headed out toward the villa's lounge to get a replacement.

He crossed behind the bar and opened up the drinks cabinet, reaching in to grab a promising looking bottle. As he withdrew it, he paused, suddenly becoming aware that there was someone else in the room. He turned quietly, scanning the shadows. "Hello? Is anybody there?"

"No."

"Virg?" Scott came around to the couch where his brother was sitting. "What are you doing out of bed?"

"My life sucks," Virgil said mournfully.

Scott picked up the half-empty bottle on the table in front of his brother. "Virg, was this full when you started?"

"It's all their fault," Virgil insisted, grabbing for the bottle in Scott's hand.

No glass, Scott noted…this must be serious. "Whose fault?"

Virgil scrutinized him carefully for a moment. Then he leaned over and answered in a conspiratorial whisper. "I can't tell you."

Scott sat down beside him. "You can't tell me? Why can't you tell me?"

"I can't tell you that, either." The mournful tone was back in Virgil's voice. "It really bites."

Scott shook his head, smiling. "Virg, you're not making any sense."

"Doesn't make sense. None of it makes sense. And I can't…"

"…Tell me why," Scott finished. "Yeah, I got that."

Virgil sighed, leaning back against the couch. "My life sucks."

Scott took the bottle from him and took a swig. He leaned back beside his brother and stared out through the French doors at the tropical night. "Yeah, Virg… You may be on to something there."

Virgil glanced around at him blearily. "Your life sucks too?'

Scott nodded, thinking about Tally Somerville for the hundredth time since seeing her again the day before. "Yep."

"Why?"

Scott smiled bleakly, reaching out and ruffling his brother's hair, the way he used to when Virgil was six and he was reading him bedtime stories. "I can't tell you."

* * *

This wasn't going to be easy, Tally told herself for the thousandth time that day as she hung up the phone. Tracking down people who had been saved from certain death by International Rescue was the easy part. Getting them to talk about it…well, it only went so far. They were more than eager to describe the rescue itself, but as soon as it got beyond that, to questions about International Rescue's operatives themselves, they suddenly dried up. Nobody wanted to tell what they knew.

"Tal, you can't blame them," Joss had said to her when she'd first broached the subject earlier that day. "They're just being protective. They know that outfit doesn't want to be found. They feel like you're asking them to turn in the guys who saved their lives. What kind of a person would do that?"

Realizing too late what he had said, he glanced up, meeting her eyes. She stared at him for a moment, then quickly looked back down at the desk again. By the time she lifted her head again, he was gone.

Tally sat there now, remembering his words – and also remembering her surprise at how bad she had suddenly felt. She ground down on the feelings again, angry with herself. She was never going to resurrect her career if she kept letting shit like this get to her. She had to be tougher than that. She just had to be.

Feeling someone watching her, she glanced up and saw Mason, standing in the doorway to his office. There was a man beside him, someone she didn't recognize.

Mason signaled to her to come over. She hesitated for a moment. Then she got up and went toward his office.

Mason waved her through the door, closing it behind her. He gestured to the stranger. "Tally, this is Stefan Andopoulos. He's on WNN's international board."

Tally reached out and shook the newcomer's hand. Nice, firm grip, she noted. He looked like a man who didn't fool around, too – there were solid muscles under the very expensive Italian suit. "Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise, Ms. Somerville."

Mason waved her to a seat. "Mr. Andopoulos flew in this morning from Europe. He wanted to meet you."

"Me? Why would a network executive want to meet me?"

Mason smiled. "I told you she was direct, Mr. Andopoulos."

"Stefan, please," he said. "Ms. Somerville…may I call you Tally..?"

She nodded. "Of course."

"Tally, I heard about the story you are working on."

Tally shot a quick, accusing glance at Mason. He spread his hands. "Didn't breathe a word. Honest."

Andopoulos smiled. It was a little predatory, she noted, the eyes black and hard like a shark's. "I have my own sources of information," he said. "But rest assured, your secret is safe with me."

"Look," Tally began, "I don't know what you want from me, but…"

"I do not want anything from you, except to see you succeed with this story," Andopoulos said. "I am only here to inform you that I am prepared to put my considerable resources behind your investigation. Whatever you need, no matter what it is, is yours with a simple vidphone call."

He handed her a plain white card with a vidphone number printed on it. "My private number. Any time of the day or night."

Tally took the card numbly, staring down at the number. She looked up again at him. "I don't know what to say."

"I am sure I do not need to explain to you what a story like this will mean to our network," Andopoulos said. "The business of news is growing more competitive every year. And pursuing an organization like International Rescue can become time consuming and very, very expensive." He paused, looking right into her eyes. "I would not want to hear that a lack of resources or information came between you and achieving this very worthwhile goal."

He stood up, offering his hand. "And now I will say good day, and leave you to your task."

Tally shook hands with him. "Thank you," she mumbled as he turned to Mason and said his farewells.

"No," he said, that predatory smile touching his mouth again. "It is I who should thank you. I know you will not let me down."

Tally stood watching him go. When he had crossed the outer office and turned out of sight towards the elevators, she finally let herself sink back into the chair. "What the hell was _that_?"

Mason gave a hard smile. "That, Ms. Somerville, was your career being made."

He would have been a great deal less sure of that fact if he could have been in the elevator going down into the basement of WNN with Mr. Stefan Andopoulos, member of the international board.

Otherwise known as the Hood.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**

_ELEVEN_

**

Elizabeth stood on the balcony of her room the next morning, drinking in the glorious tropical scenery and trying to make sense of her fight with Virgil the night before. It had been a very odd conversation, to put it mildly…what on earth had he meant by all that stuff about "it's not you, it's us," and "I can't tell you why I can't tell them"?

Last night, his words had had her really worried, and she had lain awake for a long time, wondering what the hell was going on. In the sober light of day, however, she was much more inclined to dismiss the stranger elements of what he had said and put it down to one thing…fear of commitment. After all, all things being equal, the simplest explanation was usually the right one. Virgil didn't want to tell his family because he didn't want to commit.

But what should she do? She grinned, briefly considering outing him in front of his father and brothers by doing something that would make it clear to all of them where they stood…like kissing him at the breakfast table. The look on his face would be worth it, she thought… But then she reluctantly decided it would be a mistake. If there was anything she had learned about men, it was that a relationship needed to be their idea, or it wasn't going to work. Forcing him into admitting something he wasn't ready to deal with would only backfire on her, and maybe damage their chances permanently.

There was nothing else for it…she had to get him alone and talk to him, get him to admit where he really stood. Then she would know what to do.

She turned back into her room and headed toward the door. Time to beard the lion…

In the kitchen, the chaos that was breakfast time on Tracy Island was already underway. Tin-Tin and Gordon were squabbling over who actually owned the toast that had just popped up; Grandma Ruth was starting a huge pot of coffee; Kyrano was at the industrial-sized stainless steel range top, expertly juggling several pans of various breakfast food, ignoring the well-meaning input of Parker, who was standing by with a tray that was obviously for Lady Penelope; and Jeff was maneuvering skillfully around and through everything like a battleship in the middle of a firefight. He had somehow managed to assemble a full plate of eggs and bacon, and he leaned right in between Tin-Tin and Gordon as they argued, deftly snatching the piece of toast they were fighting over. "Actually," he said, "It was mine."

They both stared at him. Jeff grinned – reminding Elizabeth once again of Scott – and said to Grandma, "Mother, let me know when the coffee's ready."

He passed Elizabeth as he left the kitchen. "Good luck in there," he said. "And watch those two by the toaster…they're sneaky."

She laughed. "Good morning, Dr. Grant," Kyrano greeted her as she entered. "May I prepare breakfast for you?"

Elizabeth watched what he was doing with something approaching awe. "You look like you have your hands full already," she pointed out. "I can wait."

"This?" Kyrano smiled. "This is nothing. It is not even busy this morning."

"Blimey. Could 'ave fooled me," Parker said. "'Ere, watch 'er Ladyship's h'eggs. She likes h'em soft."

"Yes, Mr. Parker," Kyrano said, and Elizabeth couldn't help but smile at the twinkle in the patient Malaysian's eyes. "I am well familiar with Lady Penelope's breakfast requirements. She has come to visit us before, once or twice."

Parker opened his mouth to respond, then caught Kyrano's gentle sarcasm and shut it again.

Elizabeth glanced around as Scott came into the kitchen, yawning and scratching his head. He had dark smudges under his eyes, she noticed, and he was wincing a little at the bright light. "Morning," she said.

He mumbled something vaguely appropriate, shaking his head at Kyrano's offer of breakfast. He headed straight for the coffee, earning himself a disapproving stare from Grandma by pulling out the still filling pot and shoving a mug under the drip. "Scott," she said, "One of these days you're going to burn yourself doing that."

Scott flashed her a grin, filling the rest of his mug from the pot and deftly slipping it back under the drip without spilling a single drop. "One day, Grandma," he said. "Just not today."

He leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek as he swung back out of the kitchen, following Parker with Lady Penelope's tray. _He's hung over_, Elizabeth suddenly realized, putting together the signs. Her hunch was confirmed a moment later, when Virgil shuffled in.

He was in a lot worse shape than his brother, squinting visibly in the light, his chestnut hair sticking up on end. He was still in his pajamas, the top buttoned up all wrong. He paused in the doorway, the smell of eggs and bacon obviously making him feel too ill to enter the room. He looked longingly at the coffee, all the way across the other side.

Despite their argument, Elizabeth's heart melted at the sight of him, standing there looking so miserable and helpless. She crossed to the coffee, which had now finished its cycle, and poured a mug. She brought it to him.

He looked down at her, confusion evident through the pain of the hangover, as she handed him the coffee. "We'll talk later," she said softly, resisting the urge to rebutton his top for him. "When you're feeling better."

_Oh, God,_ he thought, suddenly remembering why he had gotten so drunk.

He turned back out of the kitchen and shuffled toward the lounge, where Scott was standing on the balcony drinking his own coffee. On the way, he passed his father and Penelope, sitting at the table eating their breakfast. Virgil cringed at the sight of the eggs. "Dad," he said, "Do people still join the Foreign Legion?"

Jeff looked up at him. "What?"

"Never mind," Virgil said miserably, heading for the balcony. Maybe Scott would help him jump off.

* * *

Jeff called a security conference right after breakfast. As soon as Elizabeth was safely headed downstairs to the Infirmary, he dispatched Virgil to get Brains, telling everyone to convene in his office. Tin-Tin, Gordon and Scott were still filing in and taking their seats when a much happier looking Virgil reappeared with Brains in tow.

Virgil caught Scott's quizzical stare and took a seat beside him in the corner. "Here, take one of these," he whispered.

He surreptitiously slipped a small capsule into Scott's hand. Scott looked at it for a moment, hesitating. "What is it?"

"Just take it," Virgil insisted, trying to swallow the smile that was playing at the corners of his mouth. "You'll see."

Scott shrugged and tossed it back with a swallow of coffee. Literally seconds later he felt his hangover lifting, the headache and tension dissolving away. "Wow," he whispered. "This is great!"

"Told you," Virgil grinned.

"A…uh…recent…uh…discovery of mine," Brains murmured as he passed them, taking the seat on the other side of Scott.

Scott turned, looking at him with new respect. "Brains, you dog, you were researching hangover cures?"

"Well, no, actually, uh, Scott… I was looking for an a-antidote to the new, uh, NS71 nerve gas… But the, uh, principle is the same…"

"Nerve gas?" Scott and Virgil whispered together. They looked at him, then at each other, wondering if they should be worried about what it was they had just swallowed so willingly.

Penelope entered the office, followed by Parker. "Elizabeth is with Alan and they have begun his breathing exercises," she said. "We should be safe for at least half an hour."

"Thanks, Penny," Jeff nodded. He turned to the room. "Well, everyone, Brains and I have been talking since we returned with Alan yesterday about the security problems we had on the Southern Oceans Cup rescue. I don't need to tell you that we can't afford another attack like the one Scott experienced, where a man actually got on board Thunderbird One despite a heavy military guard and almost succeeded in hijacking him and the ship. It was a miracle he managed to turn the situation around."

Virgil glanced at Scott, realizing that he hadn't told their father about the almost fatal game of chicken he had played to turn the tables on the Hood. Scott carefully avoided his stare.

"We have come up with a couple of solutions. Brains?"

"Ah, yes, Mr. Tracy," Brains took the floor. "The challenge, first of all, was to, uh, come up with a new security system for a-all the Thunderbirds. Now, the, uh, main problem of any security system is that once the, uh-uh, potential infiltrator has figured out what the key is, then the system is rendered useless. For instance, live fingerprint scanning was real, uh, popular for a-a while, until people realized that they could be made to, uh, provide their fingerprints, whether they were, er, there or not…"

"Ew," Tin-Tin wrinkled up her nose, voicing the feelings of the room.

"What about a less easily removable body part?" Scott asked.

"Yeah," Gordon said. "How about a retina scan?"

"Uh, a retina scan is better than most of the a-alternatives," admitted Brains, "But you have to remember, uh, Gordon, that your retina will scan whether you are a-alive or not…"

"And that's not so good," Gordon agreed readily.

"Like I was saying e-earlier," Brains continued, "We need to find a-alternatives that are less immediately, uh, obvious. One is an a-addition to the chip e-embedded in your uniforms that prevents you from being, uh, photographed. If anyone sees you e-entering one of our, uh, ships, they won't see you ostensibly scanning, uh, anything, and so will not be i-immediately aware of what is granting you a-access."

Scott nodded slowly. "And if they can't figure out what we're doing, it's a lot harder to come up with a way to beat it."

"Exactly, uh, Scott," Brains smiled. "The, ah, other part of the system is an emergency fail safe e-entry code. Under extreme, uh, security conditions, you will be a-able to abdicate entry control."

"Abdicate entry control?" Virgil asked. "What does that mean?"

"I-it means, Virgil, that you cannot be made to, uh, reveal your entry code, because you won't, ah, know it."

"So who will?" Scott asked. "John or Alan in Thunderbird Five? And father?"

"Precisely," Jeff chimed in from the desk. "If you're in a situation where you know that your security is likely to be compromised, and you could be forced to give up the entry code, then that's where base can take over. Once that fail safe has been triggered, then you won't be able to gain access without our help."

"So we lock up the car and leave the keys with you," Gordon said. "That way if one of us is in danger of being forced to give up the ride…we can't get back in the driver's seat – or let anyone else in – without your help."

"But, Mr. Tracy," Tin-Tin said, "Couldn't that put the boys in a lot of danger? What if they can't reach John or Alan, or you, and they need to leave the area right away?"

"Tin-Tin, we're talking an extreme emergency situation here," Jeff said. "It's a thousand to one chance this would ever be needed. But with that Hood guy running around loose, we need to make sure we're prepared for all eventualities."

"There is, uh, one other thing," Brains said, his voice quieter now. "We are installing a self-destruct device in a-all the Thunderbirds."

"No," Scott frowned. "Father, we've had this discussion before."

"I know, Scott, and we've always decided that the risks outweighed the advantages. But you were hijacked and nearly killed out there a few days ago, and that man almost got hold of Thunderbird One."

The look on Scott's face promised a fight. "And I dealt with the problem before any of that became a reality," he said.

"Yes, Scott, but what if you hadn't been able to?" Penelope asked.

"That's not the point, Penny," Scott said, an exasperated edge to his voice. "It makes the solution too easy. _If _the Hood had gotten away with Thunderbird One, we would have figured out a way to get her back."

"But what on earth could be wrong with an easier solution?" she asked.

Scott flicked a glance at his father before looking back at Penelope. He controlled his rising temper with an effort. "I am not going to press a button and wipe out one of my family," he said. "And that's final."

He met his father's stare evenly. "You know how I feel about this. I'm in command out there, for Christ's sake."

"Yes, I know," Jeff said quietly. "You're the field commander. But ultimately, I'm still in charge, Scott."

"So, what…you're going to _order_ me to kill one of my own brothers?"

"Scott, I'm not going to argue about this any more. I've made the decision. Installation starts tomorrow. You know the rules – security must be maintained at any cost."

Scott's jaw set like stone. "I want my objection on the record."

"Already done," Jeff said.

"Thank you," Scott said, standing up, voice stiff with suppressed anger. "_Sir_."

No one spoke for a long moment after he left the room.

* * *

By the time Virgil got down to the hangar, it was too late – Scott had already opened the recessed door and was taxiing the Tracy jet out into the sunlight. He waved, yelling, trying to get his attention, but Scott either didn't see him or didn't want to. Seconds later the jet shot down the runway and roared into the sky, headed straight up.

Virgil shaded his eyes against the eye-watering brightness of the tropical sky, watching Scott take the plane into a full vertical stall, feeling the weightlessness in his own stomach as the plane hung for a split second in midair like a swimmer going off a high board, before arching gracefully down again. Recovering from the stall, she streaked straight toward the water at terrifying speed. Just as Virgil's nerves began to scream that it was too late, that Scott wasn't going to be able to pull her out in time, the jet corkscrewed violently to the right and snap-rolled out of the dive, flying upside down as she started the long arcing climb back toward the top of another loop.

_Dammit, Scott,_ Virgil thought, knowing that his brother would likely do this until he ran out of fuel. _I really need to talk to you…_

He gave up. Shoulders slumping, he turned back into the hangar.

On the balcony of the villa, Jeff also stood watching his eldest son try to rip the wings off their jet, his expression unreadable. Penelope came up beside him and watched with him for a long moment. "He has a point, you know," she said at last.

"Stay out of this, Penny," Jeff said, never taking his eyes off the jet. "You're not…"

"No," she said, deliberately keeping her voice neutral, despite the momentary flash of anger in her eyes. "Neither have I ever asked to be."

He looked at her then, seeing the set of her jaw, reading beyond the studied indifference in her words. Very slowly, the stony look in his eyes thawed. His voice was quieter, warmer, when he spoke again. "I know he does," he said, staring back up at his son.

* * *

"Okay, Alan, we're going to try coughing again," Elizabeth said. "Ready?"

"No," he said, only half-joking. He was fifteen minutes away from his next dose of morphine, and the pain was growing unbearable.

Elizabeth touched his shoulder sympathetically. "I know. Listen, take a couple of minutes…I've got to use the bathroom anyway. I'll be right back, okay?"

Alan sagged back against his propped-up pillows the second she was gone, face white, a line of cold sweat across his forehead. It was only just starting to dawn on him that this rehab was going to be a lot tougher than he had ever imagined. He couldn't move, breathe, or talk without this excruciating pain, and the breathing exercises, which included coughing to help prevent pneumonia, were the closest thing to hell he had ever experienced. He lived for the moment he could hit that morphine pump and exist for a little while without the agony, but he was also well aware that he couldn't hide behind that forever.

Oh, God, he was going to sneeze. Knowing how bad it was going to be, he tried frantically to stop it, but it was too late. He doubled over as the sneeze hit him, the agony ripping through his body with a force that made it impossible not to cry out. The pain threw him into a paroxysm of coughing, tearing his chest apart. Unable to get any oxygen into his lungs, he could feel himself beginning to gray out – but suddenly strong hands were steadying him and there was a pillow in front of him, pressed against his ribs, and miracle of miracles, the pain was easing. "Al, here, hold it like this," Gordon said, his voice calming and reassuring. "That's it. Now just breathe. See?"

Alan slowly got his spasming body back under control. He sagged back against the pillows. "Thanks," he whispered, wiped out.

Gordon smiled. "I can see you and I are gonna have to have a long talk about pain management, or you're not going to make it through the first week."

"That was very impressive," Elizabeth said from behind him. She had come running from the bathroom when she had heard Alan cry out, stopping only when she saw that Gordon had the situation well under control. "The pillow splint was going to be today's lesson. Where did you learn how to do that?"

Gordon looked around at her. "I have a little experience dealing with pain. I know what works and what doesn't."

"You do? How?"

Gordon shrugged. "Show her, Gordo," Alan said, his voice still sounding weak and watery.

"No," Gordon said, smiling and shaking his head. "That's really not necessary. He's all yours, Elizabeth."

He headed toward the door. Elizabeth said, "Gordon, wait. What did Alan mean?"

He hesitated, hand on the door switch. He looked back at her, and for the first time since she had met him, she saw a guarded expression come into his amber eyes. "Alan's just making a big deal out of everything, as usual."

"Gordo, she's a doctor, she'll get it," Alan said. "Just show her."

Gordon exhaled. He turned his back to Elizabeth and took off his shirt.

She couldn't help the intake of breath. Either side of the spine, his lower back was a mess of criss-crossed, rope-like scars. "Oh, Gordon," she said softly. "What happened to you?"

His tone was almost artificially light. "I was in a WASP hydrofoil prototype on a test run," he said. "We were doing four hundred knots when the stabilizers failed."

"Oh, my God," she said. "How did you survive?"

"I almost didn't. The first call my family got was to tell them that there were no survivors. The wreckage field was five miles long."

"But they did find you." The doctor in her was surfacing and she approached him. "May I?"

He nodded, his expression turning unreadable as she examined the scars. "I was the only one, out of a crew of six. They found me floating on a piece of what was left of the bridge control panel. They didn't recover enough of anybody else to even identify them." He paused for a moment, the memory still hard for him. "They called my father back and told him he should come…but that I probably wouldn't live long enough for him to get there."

"This looks like the damage was pretty extensive," she said. "Was there initial paralysis?"

He nodded, turning around. "The doctors told me they were eighty percent sure I wouldn't walk again. The tests said I wasn't a very good candidate for cord regeneration therapy."

"But it worked, obviously," she said, seeing the horror of that memory reflected clearly in his eyes. "How many operations have you had to stabilize your spine?"

"Nine." She could hear the shadows in his voice now. What a terrible ordeal it must all have been for him, she thought.

"I'm not surprised you know a lot about pain management, considering this," she said. "Does it still give you trouble?"

He shrugged, becoming increasingly uncomfortable now, wanting to bring the show and tell to a close. "Now and then."

"Gordo," Alan said, shaking his head.

Elizabeth looked at him. "I take it he's being a Tracy."

Despite the pain, Alan managed a smile. "Oh, yeah. It's a lot more than now and then. Sometimes he can't sleep at all."

"That's what you think," Gordon said, trying to make light of it. "I just like all-night Godzilla marathons. Without seventeen other people all fighting to change the channel."

There was compassion in Elizabeth's eyes. "Do you have the x-rays here? Can I see them? I'd like to…"

Gordon held up his hands. "Oh, no," he smiled. "I see that 'we have an operation that can help you' look. No more cutting."

"But Gordon, listen to me, you don't have to live with…"

But he shook his head, the uncharacteristically dark expression in his eyes warning her to stop. "It is what it is, Elizabeth. I'm done."

He slipped his shirt back on. Elizabeth looked at him for a long moment. Then she slowly relaxed, telling herself she might have lost the first battle, but she wasn't finished with this subject. She would find a way to revisit this with him later. "Well," she said, "You're certainly the most qualified person on Tracy Island to be Alan's coach in my absence. You want the job?"

He smiled. "That's why I'm here."

* * *

"Hey, Tally, welcome back. How's the big story coming?"

Tally glanced up from the laptop screen, seeing the tall, rangy form of senior WNN sports reporter Sandy Christiansen standing in front of her. "Oh, hey, Sandy." She leaned back, rubbing her eyes. "What big story?"

"I just had lunch with Dan," Sandy said. "He said you were working on some big piece about rescue organizations."

"Oh, yeah," she said, relaxing a little. "It's going okay. Just a lot of ground to cover."

He nodded toward the desktop computer sitting unused on the other side of her desk. "Something wrong with your computer?"

She shrugged. "Oh, you know…creature of habit. I'm on the road so much…I just get used to using the laptop." She couldn't tell him the real reason – that she didn't want to store anything at all on the WNN servers. This way when she left the office, her research went with her.

"So how was lunch?" she asked.

"Well, you know Dan," Sandy said, smiling. "It's not a good day unless he starts at least one fight."

She shook her head. "What was this one about?"

"Actually it was about you."

Tally frowned. "Me?"

"Well, sort of. Dan got all wired up thinking you'd missed a big story while you were down there in Sydney."

"What big story? Sandy, I have no idea what…"

He laughed at her expression. "Oh, don't look so worried. I just happened to mention to him that we'd heard over in sports that they brought a former American race car driver into the same hospital you and Michael were at. Gotta admit, I wish I'd known while you were still there. I would have had you track him down."

"I didn't hear anything," Tally said.

"He broke his ribs in some accident, that's what we heard," Sandy said. "I'm surprised you didn't get wind of it, though. Especially since they said International Rescue brought him in."

The whole room receded around her. Tally paused for a long moment, making sure she had control over her expression before she spoke up. "International Rescue?" she repeated, carefully keeping her voice neutral.

"Oh, yeah, the hospital cleared the parking lot for them, apparently. Wish we'd got that on film…but you know how it is with them. No pictures."

"So I hear," Tally said. "I'm sorry, Sandy, I was so busy with Mike… What was the guy's name?"

"Alan Tracy. Not that it'll mean anything to you, probably."

She kept her reaction out of her expression with a rigid effort of will, shaking her head with just the right touch of apology. "Sorry." Inside, she was swearing furiously at herself. _ Tracy! Goddammit, his whole family was there…right under my nose. That old woman who was so worried about the food being delivered was his grandmother…_

Sandy shrugged, unaware of her inner turmoil. "It's just one of those stories that doesn't have an ending. A few years back, he was going to be the next big thing on the racing circuit. He was just a kid, but really good – he was winning everything for a while there. Then he just all of a sudden retired. Nobody could figure out why, and he wasn't giving any interviews. Then a couple of years ago he showed back up with this new car and won the Parola Sands Grand Prix…and then he vanished again. I've been dying to get an exclusive with him for a long time, but nobody knows where he is."

"Well, I'm sorry I didn't hear anything, Sandy."

"I just couldn't help wondering if maybe he was racing again, and that was how he broke his ribs…" Sandy shook his head, smiling ruefully. "You know how it is when you get obsessed with a mystery you can't solve..."

"Oh, yes," she said. "I know."

The second he was gone she swung into action, logging on to WNN's online clipping service. She typed "Alan Tracy" into the search field and hit "enter."

The first story to pop up had a picture of a good-looking young blond man in racing attire, brandishing a very large trophy. The caption read, "Alan Tracy wins Parola Sands Grand Prix." She fished out her camera and looked again at the picture she had taken in the hospital room.

_Yes,_ she said to herself, pumping air with her fist. It was definitely the same man.

Excitement raced through her nerves. She was closing in.

* * *

Virgil was avoiding her.

Elizabeth had no choice but to arrive at that conclusion, after a whole day of the same thing happening. Every time she entered an area he was in, he immediately left. It had happened down in the infirmary, then in the lounge, then at the pool – and now again, when she had come up from checking on Alan and had stopped by the kitchen for some iced tea before going back down to the pool. As she came out on to the balcony, she saw Virgil at the bottom of the curving stairway. He had obviously planned to head up toward the villa…but when he saw her he abruptly reversed direction and disappeared down the path that ran alongside the house.

So this was his new tactic, she thought, shaking her head. Stay away from her until she left the Island, and hope everything would just magically go back to the way it was.

_Men._ It was a wonder the species ever managed to reproduce itself.

She sat beside the pool, only half listening to Tin-Tin and Penelope talking, trying to come up with a plan. Now what, she thought, would make it impossible for him to stay away from her?

A movement caught her eye and she saw Scott descending the stairs from the villa. And then she smiled.

Virgil had seen Scott come out of the villa and waited, hoping to catch his brother's eye and wave him over. He watched from the shadows beside the house as Elizabeth greeted him and invited him to sit beside her at the poolside. He gritted his teeth as she laughed and joked and sipped her tea, sending all those subtle little flirting signals that he knew so well. And he watched as Scott began to respond. Scott, who when they had been in high school had cut a swath through the girls so wide that he had his own fan club. Scott, who didn't know Elizabeth was his girl.

He couldn't leave…and he couldn't just stand there like an idiot, letting it happen. After fifteen minutes of agony he couldn't take it any more. He marched forward, seething.

Elizabeth, who had been watching his reflection the whole time in Scott's sunglasses, waited until he was only a few yards away. Then she stood up, telling Scott that she was going to refill her glass, and asking if he wanted anything. He said, sure, iced tea.

She smiled, bending down from the waist to retrieve the napkin she had "accidentally" dropped on the tiles, giving Virgil a perfect view of her ass. Knowing exactly what his reaction would be, she straightened back up gracefully and headed for the stairs.

Virgil arrived at the pool seconds later, fuming. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded.

Scott stood up, totally confused. "What?"

Virgil pushed him into the pool.

* * *

"Kyrano, you've outdone yourself," Jeff declared, surveying the dessert bar. "There must be fourteen flavors of ice cream here, not to mention the whipped cream and all the different kinds of syrup..."

"Well, Mr. Scott is making the dinner tonight," Kyrano smiled. "So I had a little free time on my hands."

"A little?" Jeff shook his head. He glanced out to the balcony, where Scott was barbecuing steaks, hamburgers and hot dogs on the big outdoor grill. Gordon, Tin-Tin and Parker were out there with him, and as he watched, Scott swatted his brother's hand away from a hot dog. For a moment he was vividly reminded of when his sons had all been little kids, and it had been him at the grill, back on his parents' farm.

A movement caught his eye and he saw his mother looking at him. He smiled, realizing that they had both been thinking the same thing.

"An ice cream bar!" Elizabeth grinned as she came into the room. "Kyrano, it looks delicious."

"Thank you, Dr. Grant," he said. His voice was soft as always, but she could see in his eyes that he was pleased.

She headed for the balcony. "Save some steak for me, Scott!"

He grinned over his shoulder. "I don't know if I can. The wolves are circling here."

Jeff was about to join them when he heard Penelope's voice. "Jeff, can I have a word with you?"

He followed her to his desk. "What is it?" he asked, studying her face.

"I've received a phone call from our correspondence service," she said. "Someone has been making inquiries."

Jeff frowned. "About us?"

"I'm afraid so," she said. "I'll leave for London in the morning."

He nodded. "I suppose that's best."

"Just keep me informed as to your progress with the Hood," she reminded him.

He smiled. "You know I will."

She looked past him toward the balcony, where Scott was now defending the grill against all comers, brandishing the tongs like a sword. "Try to work things out with him, Jeff," she said.

He turned, following her eyes. "I'll try, Penny," he promised.

After pushing Scott into the pool earlier that afternoon, Virgil had made a quick escape to the maintenance bay in search of something mechanical to tear apart. Taking out his frustrations on a poor unsuspecting recovery vehicle for the last couple of hours had helped unwind some of the tension, but eventually his growling stomach got the better of him. Realizing it was dinnertime, he cleaned up and headed in search of food.

The smell of barbecuing meat assailed his nose as he emerged from the elevator. By the time he reached the lounge, the informal dinner was already underway. Tin-Tin had helped her father bring out salad, corn on the cob and baked potatoes, and everyone was stacking their plates high. Elizabeth was now in the living room sitting with Jeff and Lady Penelope, and Virgil gave her a wide berth as he headed for the balcony.

"Uh, hey, Virg," Scott said, suddenly realizing how close he was standing to the balcony railings. He took a step back towards the house, gesturing at the grill. "Help yourself."

"Oh, shut up," Virgil growled.

"Okay," Scott said uncertainly, backing away a little further. It was a long way down, after all, and he had absolutely no idea what was wrong with his brother lately.

Ignoring the others looking at them both quizzically, Virgil grabbed the tongs and piled steak on to his plate. He turned back into the lounge…and paused.

Elizabeth was holding a corn cob upright on her plate and spreading butter on it. Slowly.

Penelope and his father, deep in conversation, weren't paying attention. Virgil, on the other hand, was completely unable to look away as Elizabeth speared the corn cob with her fork and lifted it to her mouth. She looked right at him and smiled as she licked butter off the tip.

Virgil made a tiny whimpering sound in his throat. He swung back around. The balcony suddenly looked like a really good place to eat.

"Virgil?" Tin-Tin asked. "Don't you want any salad?"

"Oh, shut up," he grunted, scowling at her as he stomped past.

It was dessert before he dared venture back inside. By now everyone had scattered across the lounge, talking, watching the televid screen, playing games. Virgil joined his father and Penelope at the ice cream bar. "Looks good, huh?" he asked.

Jeff glanced at him, grimacing slightly. "Don't tell Kyrano," he said, "But I've got a touch of indigestion. I don't think I'll be having any ice cream tonight."

"Well, I'm not surprised, Jeff," Penelope said, "Considering that plate of eggs and bacon you had for breakfast. If you eat like that all the time…"

He smiled at her. "Now don't you start nagging me, too," he said. "I get quite enough of that from mother and Kyrano."

He and Penelope headed back toward their table, leaving Virgil alone at the ice cream bar. He was contemplating his choices when he heard Elizabeth's voice from behind him. "Hi, Virgil," she said. "You know, I just realized I haven't talked to you all day."

Virgil backed up nervously, reacting to her slightly predatory tone. "Well, ah…I, ah…"

"Look at all this ice cream," she interrupted him. "Doesn't it look delicious? I think I'm going to make something yummy."

Not quite sure what to do, he stood there watching her as she selected a boat-shaped dish and carefully placed two rounded scoops of strawberry ice cream in it. Then she picked up a banana and peeled it, very slowly, flipping the peel into the trash with a flick of her wrist. He stared as she stood the banana upright between the two scoops of ice cream, pushing them together to hold it in place. Then she took the can of whipped cream and shook it. "Oooh, whipped cream."

Hardly breathing, he watched, mesmerized, as she squirted the white foamy confection in a slow spiral up around the banana. She looked up at him, eyes smoldering. "What do you think, Virgie? Chocolate syrup?"

"Ah…ah…I gotta go…" Virgil bolted from the lounge, suddenly needing to be somewhere, _anywhere_ else.

Elizabeth grinned after him. "Lightweight," she murmured.

* * *

Virgil lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, sleep a very long way away. He wanted her. God, how he wanted her. His body had him on a rack, torturing him endlessly with images of how she felt beneath him and around him, the sounds she made, how the scent of her hair filled his senses.

He had a feeling it was going to be a very long week.

In his own bedroom next door, Scott stirred in his sleep, an incongruous knocking sound disturbing him. He rolled over in bed, squinting at the clock, then glanced, puzzled, toward the wall that separated his quarters from Virgil's. As awareness dawned he realized that the sound that had awakened him was the water pipes banging – a tie had broken loose somewhere in there a few days ago, and he kept forgetting to put in an order to get it fixed.

He did wonder, briefly, as he drifted back to sleep, what on earth his brother was doing taking a shower at three o'clock in the morning…


	12. Chapter Twelve

**

_TWELVE_

**

The horizon was just beginning to lighten with touches of the pink and gold of sunrise as Scott came out of the villa. He paused at the top of the curved stairway, steaming cup of coffee in hand, gazing out to sea. He never got tired of how beautiful dawn was here.

This morning, though, he gradually became aware that something was out of place. He scanned the deep shadows down at the poolside, and then a frown creased the skin between his eyebrows. Virgil up before daybreak was about as common as snow on Tracy Island.

He came down the steps quietly and approached his brother, studying his profile thoughtfully. Years of caring for all his brothers in sickness and health had taught him the skills of quick assessment, and he knew Virgil better than any of them. He looked like hell. Scott wondered if he'd slept at all.

"So," he said lightly. "You've decided this is going to be the new look for you, huh?"

Virgil jumped, startled. He saw Scott and grunted something, looking back out over the water.

Scott took the chair beside him. They watched the sunrise for a moment in silence. Then Scott said, "Virgil, what's going on? And don't give me that crap about how you can't tell me."

"Virgil!"

They both turned to see Jeff descending the steps toward the pool. Virgil groaned quietly, running a hand through his hair in an effort to not look quite so much like he hadn't slept in two days. It didn't help a whole lot.

"Morning, Dad." Scott turned to greet his father, automatically running interference. "You're up early."

"Morning, Scott. Virgil, it's your turn to go to New York, isn't it?" Jeff said, coming around the table to sit with them. Scott saw him take brief stock of Virgil's unkempt appearance, but he didn't comment on it.

Virgil flicked Scott a stricken glance. "Ah, yes…but…"

Jeff shook his head. "No 'buts,' son. Look, I know you boys don't like to deal with the mundane stuff of running this business." He raised a hand quickly to stem their automatic denials. "I live here too, you know – I see the annual reports in the trash the day after they come in. But remember, one day you'll have to take over from me, and when that happens, I think it might be a good idea of you had set foot inside the Tracy Corporation enough times that our employees actually recognize you."

Never at his best this early in the morning, Virgil's overtired state made it even harder for him to find words. "That's not it, dad, honest, it's just that…"

"I'll go," Scott said quietly.

"Now, Virgil, I understand, really I do, but… what?" Jeff belatedly reacted to Scott's interjection.

Scott took a sip of coffee, his eyes enigmatic. "I said, I'll go. I could use some time off the Island."

Virgil looked at him in frank surprise. "But you hate Tracy Corp work."

"Uh-huh." Scott couldn't help a grin at his brother's blunt way of calling things as he saw them. "But I'll go anyway."

Jeff sat back, appraising him. "If this is your way of apologizing for yesterday, son…"

Scott smiled thinly. "It's not, father. Trust me."

Jeff met his eldest son's unyielding gaze for a moment, mindful of his talk with Penelope the night before. Scott was right, he thought. He did need some time away from the Island. "All right, then, it's settled. I need you to drop Penny and Parker in London on the way."

Scott nodded. "No problem. It'll be nice to have the company. It's a long flight."

Jeff got up. "Penny's packing now. She'd like to leave right after breakfast."

He started back toward the steps to the villa. "And don't think you're getting away with it, Virgil," he said. "You'll go for sure the next time."

"Yes, father," Virgil murmured. As soon as Jeff was out of earshot he shot a grateful look at Scott. "Thanks."

"You're in no condition to fly all that way," Scott said. "He would have figured that out eventually. Did you get any sleep last night?"

Virgil gazed at the ground, avoiding his eyes. Scott looked at him for a moment. Then: "We're going to have this talk, Virg. And you're gonna come clean with me. Okay?"

Virgil looked up, but not at his brother. He stared out over the dawn-gilded ocean. "I'll tell you mine if you'll tell me yours," he said softly.

Scott paused, an ironic smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I knew you'd say that."

Virgil turned toward him, the expression in his burnt-honey eyes hidden in shadow. Scott sighed. "Okay," he said. "We'll do this when I get back."

Virgil nodded, shoulders sagging wearily. "Hey," Scott said. "Whatever it is, we'll find a way to fix it, Virg. I promise."

The reminder of so many childhood conversations made Virgil's chest suddenly ache. He wished fervently that Scott was right. But this wasn't like the problems Scott had so often helped him solve when they'd been younger. This one, he doubted even his big brother could fix.

But he nodded again anyway, knowing it was the response Scott expected. He didn't trust himself to speak.

Scott got up, squeezing his shoulder affectionately. Then he turned and headed for the stairs.

Halfway up, he couldn't contain it any more – he started to whistle. Opportunity had presented itself, and he'd grabbed it in both fists. He was going to New York.

And Tally Somerville.

* * *

Tally was late, as usual.

It had been the pattern all day. She had worked very late on her research the night before, finally quitting at three a.m. when she could no longer see straight, crawling into bed over piles of folders and envelopes anddata cds. She'd dragged herself out of bed again at seven, reset the alarm and dived back under the covers for another precious half hour. That left her with no time to do anything but take a fast shower and pile her thick blonde hair up at the back of her head, fastening it with a clip. She was never going to make that eight-thirty meeting… Searching her closet for something that was clean and didn't need ironing, she threw on a pair of khakis, a white shirt and a jade green sweater, grabbed her makeup and her laptop and ran out of the apartment. She was still late for the meeting.

It wasn't until halfway through the morning that she paused in the middle of her third cup of strong coffee and realized that she had promised to meet her mother for lunch at a very upscale new restaurant before a meeting about her latest art gallery opening. She looked down at what she was wearing and groaned. Maybe she'd get enough time to dash past her apartment on the way and…

Yeah, right. The next time she looked up, she realized the press of work had gotten the better of her once more, and she'd left it until the very last second. Again. She was standing up, grabbing her bag, figuring she just had time to get to her destination if midtown traffic wasn't too bad, when of course the phone rang. And of course, against her better judgement, she answered it. And of course, on the other end was a person who actually wanted to talk about International Rescue. At great length. In slow, very broken English.

She put on her makeup in the cab, couldn't do anything about her hair. Damn, she thought bitterly, why did these things always conspire to make her mother look right about her life?

Charlene Somerville was holding court in the restaurant when she arrived, her art gallery meeting already in progress. Tally paused in the doorway, watching her beautiful, elegant Southern Belle mother work the table full of potential art investors, easily holding the attention of every man in the surrounding area. She did it so subtly, so effortlessly, and when she turned on the charm every woman for five tables around suddenly felt invisible. Tally knew that feeling well.

She caught her reflection in the window as she went in, her mouth twisting as she took in her outfit, which was more suitable to an afternoon at the yacht club than this very chic new bistro. She groaned, realizing that she was even wearing tennis shoes. Why did life always make quite sure that she had to fight these battles completely unarmed? She put on a brave smile, feeling it falter as her mother saw her and instantly registered a faint frown of disappointment. Shit. This wasn't going to go well.

Mired in the complete inadequacy her mother's presence always produced in her, she didn't even notice the appreciative glances from the businessmen having lunch at the tables she passed as she entered the restaurant. Her mother had done it again, and she was an awkward sixteen year old with braces once more.

She took the peripheral chair her mother gestured toward and waited for the meeting to be over. At last Charlene had air kissed the last over-preserved society matron goodbye and flirted with the last Wall Street stockbroker. She turned to her daughter and gave a tiny sigh. "Darlin', would it have killed you to wear a dress? You look like you're going to barbecue night at the country club."

"Mother…"

Charlene was examining her daughter's hastily done hairdo, reaching as if to fix it. Tally batted her hand away. "I think it's time for those highlights we were talking about," her mother continued, oblivious to her protests. "Do you the world of good. Let me call Willie for you…"

"Mother…" Tally squirmed, glancing uncomfortably around at the nearby restaurant patrons. "Can we please sit down?"

Her mother gave her a look of mild surprise. "Well, of course, darlin'."

They took their seats opposite one another at the table. The bus boy began to clear the plates left by the guests who had just departed. Charlene leaned over, smiling conspiratorially, "Let's go shopping this afternoon. Just you and me. Come on, it'll be fun, and we can buy you some new clothes."

Tally braced herself. Here it came, the swift reduction of her entire life and achievements to the sum of the contents of her wardrobe. "I have to work, Mother."

"Oh, come on, Tally darlin', they won't miss you for one afternoon. I saw a gorgeous little silk number at Bergdorff's that has your name written all over it."

"Mother, I can't. Really. And I have plenty of clothes."

Her mother's arched eyebrow was all the answer she needed to make to that statement. "Tally, honey, you're a pretty girl, but you could make so much more of yourself. Now come on, if we hurry we could be at Bergdorff's by…"

"Mother," Tally said, an edge creeping into her voice, "I don't have the kind of job where I wear…"

"Sweetie," Charlene rolled over her smoothly. "How do you expect to find a man if you insist on dressing and behaving like one of them?"

Tally instantly thought of Mason and his unwelcome advances. "Mother, for God's sake, what do you want me to do – show up at the WNN newsroom in a little black dress and pumps? There are other things in the world more important than whether I manage to get myself into another disastrous relationship!"

Charlene looked at her. "Now, Tally, we need to work on that attitude of yours," she said with mild reproach. "Positive thinking gets positive results, remember?"

Tally stared at her. As usual, no matter what she said, nothing ever seemed to reach her mother. _Sticks and stones…_ She remembered the endless battles when she had been a teenager – her mother smiling that serene Teflon-coated smile, Tally's protesting words rolling off her effortlessly, all the while relentlessly pursing her goal of whatever major personality or lifestyle change she wanted her daughter to make. Charlene would push and push like an expert in Chinese water torture, and Tally would resist until she finally could take no more, erupting at her mother in fury to please, please leave her alone. And then Charlene would shake her head in bewilderment, making some platitude about how she understood how tough it was to be a teenager, all the pressure and everything, and they'd talk about this later – as if the outburst had been caused by Tally's teenage hormones instead of her mother's refusal to stop trying to change her into someone she didn't want to be.

Tally's jaw set like stone at the memory. Just for once she'd like to see her mother really lose her temper, but she knew Charlene was too smart for that. Because that would mean something had gotten to her, and she would never allow Tally – or anyone else for that matter – the satisfaction.

She determinedly changed the subject. "How's the opening going?"

"Splendidly," Charlene smiled, for all the world as if their previous conversation hadn't happened. "We've pre-sold fifteen pieces already."

"That's great," Tally said, glad to be on neutral ground again. Her relief was short-lived, however, and she gritted her teeth at her mother's next question.

"Can I count on you to be at our opening on Friday?"

Tally nodded, swallowing her reluctance. "Yes, of course. I'll even wear a dress."

Predictably, Charlene didn't react to the underlying sarcasm. "Honey, at least check out the one I saw at Bergdorff's, will you? I'll have Sharon put it on hold for you."

Tally acquiesced. "Okay."

"So," her mother said with studied casualness, looking at the menu. "Will you be bringing anyone?"

The sudden, vivid image of Scott surprised Tally. She looked down quickly to hide the expression she knew must have come into her eyes. "No," she said. "I've been busy, working on a big story."

"Ah hah, I knew it," Charlene's expression was delighted. "You've met someone!"

"No. Well, maybe," Tally murmured, picking up the menu. "I don't know. Can we order? I'm starving."

"Of course, dear." Her mother summoned the waiter. "Just remember what I told you. If you spend your life working, he's going to lose interest. Men won't wait around an empty apartment."

Tally sighed. "I don't think this guy spends much time waiting around empty apartments," she said. "But I'll try to remember that."

Thankfully, the waiter arrived at that moment. Grateful for the reprieve, Tally sat back in her chair, thinking again of Scott. Her mother would have heartily approved of him. She found herself wishing fervently that he'd been someone else, _anyone_ else...and that they'd met under different, better circumstances…

_The story of my life,_ she thought, a trace bitterly, as she looked up to order her lunch.

* * *

Rosemary O'Sullivan arrived for work at the Tracy Corporation promptly at 8 a.m. that day, as she had done every day for the last twenty three years – no matter where that work had been located. And the Tracy Corp. headquarters had moved several times over the years before finding its current home, a sleek, black granite building with gold-tinted windows in the heart of mid-town Manhattan.

An attractive woman in her mid-fifties with auburn hair, sparkling hazel eyes and a firm but friendly demeanor, she had been Jeff Tracy's right hand since the beginning. She would often recall those early days fondly, when the company had been called Tracy Aerospace and had just consisted of the two of them, Jeff's unshakable determination to pursue a dream, and a great deal of takeout meals. Over the years they had seen amazing growth and expansion, and now the aerospace division was just one of many beneath the vast Tracy Corp. umbrella. But Rosemary would never forget the old days.

Her first husband, Major Sean O'Sullivan, had been a test pilot under Jeff's command. Sean had crashed and died during a test flight at Rogers Dry Lake in California, leaving Rosemary to raise three young children on her own. Jeff, then an air force colonel who was ironically to find himself in a similar situation only a short while later, went out of his way to make sure she and the kids were all right. His own wife, Lucille, hadn't come to the dry lake test facility, since she was having a difficult pregnancy with her fourth child and Jeff didn't want to bring her to this hot, barren place – preferring to leave her with his parents at their farm in Kansas. Jeff would visit Sean and Rosemary often before Sean's accident, obviously missing his family, and Rosemary would make home cooked meals while they traded stories about their children. Jeff was excessively proud of his three – Scott, an extremely handsome seven year old with vivid blue eyes, who was obsessed with becoming a pilot and was already devastating the girls in his second grade class; intense, four year old Virgil, an adorable chestnut-haired child who from the pictures Jeff showed them seemed to spend a vast amount of time working on advanced vehicle design with the help of his lego set; and two year old John, an angelic looking blond boy who had fallen in love with the view through his father's old telescope and wouldn't rest until Jeff relocated it to his room.

It was during those visits that Jeff first mentioned his dream of owning his own aerospace company, to design and build jets that pilots would be glad to fly, jets that wouldn't crash and kill so often because they were dreamed up by men who had never set foot in a cockpit and held a control stick in their hand. He talked about the thrill of walking on the moon, and about how one day a mission would go to Mars, and how he wanted to be a part of it – helping to provide ships that could safely make the distance across the hostile cold of space. She remembered how Sean's eyes would always light up when Jeff talked about Mars.

After the accident, when they buried Sean and Rosemary was left a grief stricken widow, Jeff made sure she kept her base housing until she had made arrangements to take what was left of her family back to her native New York. In the meantime, he maintained their friendship, coming over to the house regularly to check on her. He made sure nothing needed fixing around the house, and they fell easily into the same routine, her cooking, him talking about the moon and Mars and building his dream.

Two years later, Lucille Tracy was dead, and Jeff was raising five sons alone. He called Rosemary, who had returned to her native New York, and asked her to come and work with him. She parked the kids with her mother and flew to Cape Canaveral to meet with him. Tracy Aerospace was born that day.

Hearing a commotion in the corridor outside, Rosemary left her bagel and coffee and went to the double glass outer doors. She smiled as she saw Jeff's eldest son, now in his early thirties and considerably more devastating than he had been as a seven year old, turning the female assistants' heads as he strode down the corridor toward her. His eyes lit up as he came through the glass doors into the outer office. "Rosemary," he smiled, sweeping her into a hug. "It's good to see you."

"Hello, Scott…good flight?" Rosemary asked. "Your father told me you came through London and didn't stop over."

"Naah…I wanted to get here as soon as I could. No sense fooling around on the way to my execution." Scott grinned at her expression and shrugged out of his coat, sitting on the edge of her desk in a manner that always reminded her of Jeff. Of all his sons, Scott was the most like him – they were both men of action who hated to sit still for too long, they both had the same easy smile, the same warmth, quick wit and enigmatic way of deflecting attention away from themselves. And they would both go to the ends of the earth to help someone in trouble. But there was one big difference – Scott, despite his intelligence, superb piloting skills and considerable success at designing and developing new aircraft for the corporation, hadn't a scrap of interest in the business side of things, or the empire building instincts his father had always possessed so strongly. No, she thought, that particular gene had carried through to another of his sons, although Jeff had yet to realize it.

"I stopped by New Jersey to take a look at the Dragonfly," Scott was saying, his eyes shining as he mentioned his favorite aeronautical project, a new jet he had designed from the ground up. "Have you seen the new prototype? She's looking really great. I brought the new test specs…Chris Rogers was saying you were waiting for them."

He fished a minidisk envelope out of his pocket and handed it over. She traded it for a cup of coffee – black, no sugar, the way he liked it. "Thanks," he smiled. "How are things? Still an O'Sullivan?"

It was their private joke. Rosemary was on her third husband – and by some weird coincidence, all of the men she had married had been named O'Sullivan. The second had been a New York City policeman, a short-lived mistake of a marriage that she had thankfully escaped by going to work in Florida with Jeff Tracy. The third, which had proven the old adage that three times was a charm, was blissfully happy. Her current spouse, Jack O'Sullivan, was ironically the second cousin of her second husband – a deputy fire chief she had met at a family reunion five years ago.

"Yes," she retorted good-naturedly. "And you're still single, I hear."

Normally that just got her a grin and some remark about taking his time narrowing the field, but this time she was surprised to see something flicker in his eyes. "Yeah," he nodded, covering smoothly. His voice took on a teasing tone. "Do me a favor and spread it around, okay? I've only got a few days and that kind of news is always good for a couple of mercy dates."

"Sure, Scott, I'll do that," she said, shaking her head at him – thinking of the reaction his remark would have gotten from the mesmerized women on the executive floor of Tracy Corp. Scott Tracy and his four brothers redefined the term 'eligible bachelor.'

Stalling any further inquiry into his personal life, Scott was up off her desk and heading into his father's office. "So," he said, "Break it to me gently. What's on the agenda?"

* * *

"You know," Mike said, "You mustn't let Mom get to you like this."

Tally sighed, turning from the window in her brother's hospital room. "I'm sorry. Is it that obvious?"

Mike smiled. "You've got that look. You could crack a walnut with that jaw."

Tally came back to sit beside him on the edge of his bed. "It's just it's always the same. Five minutes in her company and I feel like I have pimples and braces and the back of my dress is stuck in my pantyhose."

Mike burst out laughing. "Does that really happen?"

Tally nodded knowingly. "Oh, yes. You think dragging half the toilet roll out of the bathroom on your shoe is bad? I've got news for you."

"You know it's you, not her, don't you?" Mike said. "You let her intimidate you."

"Oh, like you'd know anything about it," Tally said bleakly. "She never treated you like that. It was always Mike this, Mike that, Mike's so perfect, he never does anything wrong."

"Marsha, Marsha, Marsha," Mike grinned, reminding her of the old classic television show they had watched on vid-disk as children. "I did plenty of things wrong, sis. I just never let either Mom or Dad tell me what I should do with my life. You should try it sometime."

"I'm fine with what I'm doing with my life," Tally retorted, catching the look he was giving her.

"Are you?" he said gently. "You don't look happy to me."

Tally scowled, frustrated. "Things are getting better. I've got a big story now. They won't be able to keep me down this time."

Mike sighed. "It shouldn't always have to be such a battle, Tally. Do you want to spend your whole life struggling like this, letting those people screw you over?"

"You don't understand the business I'm in," she said. "You've got to put in the time, you've got to be tough, or…"

"Or what? The sharks will get you? Sounds like all kinds of fun to me."

"We can't all spend our lives having fun," she snapped. "Some of us have to work for a living."

Mike raised his eyebrows. "Yes, dad," he said softly.

She stared at him. "I'm sorry," she said, after a moment.

"It's okay," he smiled. "I know, he's said a million times that sailing yachts isn't a 'real job.' But answer me this…why does a 'real job' have to be something that makes you angry and frustrated? Why can't it be something you like to do?"

She didn't answer him, looking at her feet.

He was silent for a moment. When she looked up again, he was resting his head against the pillows, tiring now. "Tally," he said, "At least admit to yourself that you're doing this for him."

"I'm not," she protested. "I like what I'm doing."

He reached for her hand, squeezing it affectionately. "No, sis. _I _like what I'm doing. You're trying to make a name for yourself to prove something to him."

Tally's shoulders sagged. She shook her head. "It's so frustrating, Mike. I try so hard, and all I do is hit brick walls. Dad doesn't understand how tough it is… He doesn't realize all I do is work, twenty-four-seven, and it still isn't ever enough. He just wants to know why he doesn't see me on screen all the time, like when I was at the Providence affiliate. And Mother…"

"Mom's pulling you in the opposite direction," Mike nodded, understanding. "Dad wants to know why you haven't 'made it' yet, and Mom wants you to spend less time at work and more time catching some poor eligible bastard to turn into a husband."

Tally's eyes stung. "I thought I'd done that," she said, suddenly weary. "She thinks Richard started cheating because I was always gone."

"She's probably right," Mike said. "That doesn't excuse what he did, though – or how he did it."

"Men suck," Tally sighed. "I'm thinking of having it put on a pillow."

Mike smiled. "C'mere."

She leaned over so he could put his arm around her shoulders. "You know, you don't have to take on the burden of trying to make them happy just because I refused it," he said after a minute.

Tally sighed. "It's not that easy."

"Yes, it is," he said. "It really, really is. You'll never make them happy, Tally. It's never going to happen, because they're never going to be satisfied, no matter what you do. I figured that out a long time ago."

"Thanks," she said, mouth twisting. "You don't know how much hope that gives me."

He paused for a long moment. "I remember going down to the beach every day with you as a kid, and I'd want to go sailing, and all you wanted to do was sit on a rock and write in your journals. Mom and Dad couldn't get you to put the pen down even at dinner."

"God, that was a long time ago," she said. "It feels like I was someone else back then."

"Tally," he said, "When was the last time you wrote something just for you?"

Tally opened her mouth to reply…and realized she didn't remember.

* * *

For the hundredth time that afternoon, Scott glanced up from the endless piles of paperwork and stared at the vidphone, thinking about Tally. He'd already been in town three days, and was scheduled to leave again the day after tomorrow. He had come all this way intending to see her, but over and over he'd found himself hesitating, unsure of how to go about it. If only it wasn't so complicated. She knew he was International Rescue, so hiding that part of his identity was out of the question. But that meant he couldn't tell her who he really was, either, without a major breach of the security his father was so insistent on maintaining.

There was a good reason for the way his father felt, Scott knew. International Rescue possessed technology that in the wrong hands could be put to frighteningly effective use. As Jeff had said frequently, imagine a gang of international terrorists who couldn't be caught because their ships were too fast, couldn't be located because they were completely cloaked from all known tracking devices, and could break into anything, anywhere, with the devices and machines they had at their disposal. There was also the equally important fact that the only way International Rescue could operate the way they did was because they had no interference from governments or outside parties of any kind. They saved countless lives because they didn't have to wait for approvals and cut through miles of red tape…they just took off and flew to the danger zone and got it done. That would all change if their identities and location became known and the authorities started to try to rule and regulate them, as it was inevitable they would.

Rosemary came into the office at that moment, breaking his train of thought. Scott flexed his shoulders wearily, groaning as he saw the new stack of folders she was carrying, pages bristling with stickers for him to read and initial. "Aw, no, not more. You hate me, don't you?"

She grinned at him. "Your father's right. It does you boys good to see the other side of things for a while."

"This is a conspiracy," he said accusingly. "I know what you're doing. You're sitting out there making up piles of this stuff just because you want to make me suffer." He flipped open the top folder from the stack she handed him. "See…this is what I mean. Nexoplastique. What the hell _is_ that, anyway?"

"There's a full brief attached, Scott," she said firmly. "Tell you what. Tomorrow we'll break up the monotony with a nice round of board meetings."

"Ugh," Scott made a face. "Let's not, and say we did."

"Bet you'll never complain about a three day earthquake rescue again," Rosemary said. She was one of a bare handful of people across the Tracy organizations who knew of the family's role in International Rescue, and the only one who had known about it since before its inception.

"You got one?" he said hopefully. "I could leave right now."

She laughed at him. "It's five o'clock. Want me to make dinner reservations?"

He shook his head. "Naah, I'm just gonna go up and crash tonight – I'm beat. But…"

She looked at him, hearing the hesitation. "Yes?"

"Make me some for tomorrow night, would you?" he asked. "Somewhere nice."

"Date nice?" she asked, unable to keep from smiling.

"Yes, 'date nice,'" he shook his head at her expression.

"How important?" she asked. "Casual and fun nice, or impress the hell out of her nice?"

She was surprised when instead of the usual flippant response, he looked at her with a suddenly serious expression in his cobalt eyes. He considered his response for a moment, then: "Impress the hell out of her nice. Someplace nobody can get reservations. I'll leave the rest up to you."

"Well, okay," she said. "Coming right up. Anything else I can do for you?"

He sat back in his chair, knowing she was wanting more information, but not yet willing or able to share it. "Well, you could have the Mercedes brought up."

"Will do." She left the office, barely able to contain her pleased smile. The look on his face had been unmistakable. _Well, what do you know,_ she thought. _Some girl's finally hooked Scott Tracy._

She knew Jeff Tracy's policy on strangers on Tracy Island, and she knew how fiercely loyal all his sons were to him and to International Rescue. But for Scott's sake, she couldn't help hoping this time, maybe they could work things out. After all, it was hardly fair to force all those fine, handsome young men to keep their personal lives on hold like this while life passed them by. They deserved wives and families of their own, too.

She sighed to herself as she sat back down behind her own desk. Maybe she could talk to him, if it came to that. Somebody certainly ought to, she thought, reaching to pick up the phone to make the reservations.

* * *

Tally glanced up at the towering granite wall of the Tracy Corporation building as she entered through the revolving doors the next afternoon. She scanned the lobby, heading over toward the horseshoe-shaped guard desk. "Hi," she said, "I've got a four-thirty appointment with human resources…how do I get to the 35th floor?"

"The elevators over by the back wall," the guard pointed. "The middle two go to 35."

"Thanks." Tally crossed the lobby, taking in the simple elegance of the lobby's decorations. No self-serving pictures of the company's achievements, she noted, and no snappy company sayings. Good for them.

Her research had turned up that the original backing for Alan Tracy's stellar but short-lived racing career had come from his father, billionaire ex-astronaut Jeff Tracy. She quickly realized that the corporate address in New York the nurse in Sydney had mentioned being on Alan's chart was probably that of the Tracy Corp. headquarters. Since the only other lead to Alan's whereabouts was an address of a farm near Kansas City, now leased to a family who had never met the Tracys, Tally had opted to check out Tracy Corp. A contact she had done a favor for in the past had secured her a job interview at the company, which was as good a way as any to get in through the door.

She had heard from her London investigator that morning, but he had no good news for her. He had managed to find out that the letters that came to the correspondence service for International Rescue were indeed, as she had surmised, read by the staff of the company, who determined which ones were worthy of sending on. At that point the letters were scanned into the computer and transmitted electronically to another relay point outside London, after which the trail vanished. Try as they might, he couldn't discover where the signal went after that. Their tracks were covered too well. He did, however, seem impressed by the firm's roster of clients, who included rock stars, well-known actors, and prominent members of British society. He had even mentioned seeing Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward leaving the offices as he arrived. Lady Penelope's name and reputation were familiar to Tally through the many social obligations she had been forced to fulfill at the request of her mother – although she had trouble recalling the face. Blonde, she thought she remembered. Beautifully dressed, which made sense considering the woman's impressive background.

She was distracted by her arrival at Human Resources, greeted by a smiling young man who handed her a palmpad to fill out her application. Tally sat absently making things up about herself on the form as she took in her surroundings. Finished, she handed the palm pad back to the young man. "Excuse me, where's the nearest bathroom?"

"Turn left outside the door," he said. "It's three doors down." He turned and called over his shoulder, "Caroline, what's the visitor code for the women's restroom?"

"231," the woman he addressed called back.

The young man turned back to Tally. "Key in 231 on the door."

"Thanks," she smiled. "I'll be right back."

Outside in the corridor, she decided to visit the restroom anyway, in case there were cameras operating in the hallways. While washing her hands, she smiled at the two other women who came in, laughing and chattering. As they all stood at the mirror, repairing makeup and reapplying lipstick, she said, "Do either one of you know where the executive offices are? Mr. Tracy gave me a recommend for a job and I want to thank him before I leave."

"Which Mr. Tracy?" one of the women asked.

"Yeah," the other chimed in. "There are six of them, if you count all the brothers."

"Six?" Tally asked, surprised. "I didn't know that… I'm talking about Alan."

The first woman grinned. "We haven't seen Alan Tracy around here in months. The boys don't come here a lot."

"Oh," Tally said. "Why not?"

The second woman shrugged, picking up her purse to leave. "This company belongs to their father," she said. "Would _you_ sit in an office on the executive floor and shuffle papers when you're as rich and good-looking as they are?"

"Hell no," the first woman grinned. "I'd be on a yacht in the south of France."

"Drinking champagne and ordering caviar on toast," the second one giggled.

Tally smiled. "I guess you're right."

The two women turned to leave. The first one turned as she went through the door. "Oh, the executive offices are on the 64th floor," she said. "You can leave a message for Alan with Rosemary O'Sullivan…she's Jeff Tracy's executive assistant. Pretty much runs the company."

"Thank you," Tally said. "I'll do that."

As soon as the women were gone, Tally gathered up her purse and headed for the door. She checked the numbers above the elevators, finding only one that went to the 64th floor. It came swiftly and she stepped inside, pressing the button that would take her all the way to the top of the building.

It seemed like only a second or two before the elevator signal dinged and the doors whispered open again. Tally exited the car and headed down the corridor, projecting all the casual self-assurance she could – mindful of what Graham Hamilton had taught her a long time ago, act like you own the place, and everyone will think you do.

The assistants she passed in their recessed outer offices nodded to her as she walked by. After what seemed like miles of the lushly carpeted corridor, she arrived at a set of tall glass doors. The outer office inside had two desks, one on either side of the room. Beyond them was a door with a brass nameplate she couldn't read, but she could guess that it probably bore Jeff Tracy's name.

There was a young blonde woman at one of the desks. Tally came in and smiled. "Excuse me, are you Rosemary?"

"Oh, no, I'm Kristin," the blonde said. "Rosemary is in a meeting. Can I take a message for her?"

"Oh, it's nothing important," Tally said. "I just wanted to ask her to pass on my thanks to Alan Tracy, for giving me a job recommend."

"You know Alan?" Kristin asked, looking interested.

"Not very well," Tally admitted. "We met in Australia recently. I gather he doesn't come here a whole lot."

"No," Kristin said, shaking her head. "We don't see much of the brothers, I'm afraid. Rosemary says Mr. Tracy – Jeff, that is, their father – is always sending them here to keep their hand in on the business side of things, but they're not too keen on it, from what I can tell."

"I see," Tally nodded. "Too bad for you guys…I haven't met them, but if they all look like Alan…"

"They don't, but they're all great-looking," Kristin grinned. "Especially his oldest brother… He's here right now. I'm telling you…" She mimed fanning herself.

Tally grinned back. "Rich _and_ good looking. Where's the justice?"

Kristin laughed. Tally glanced around her. "So this is Jeff Tracy's office. Alan told me he's a former astronaut?"

"Oh, yes. The last man to walk on the moon," Kristin said, a touch of pride in her voice. "That's a painting of his Jupiter II rocket over there. He was mission commander, you know."

Tally went over and studied the painting, a particularly beautiful rendering of a slender white rocket lifting off from its launch pad while dawn rose over the nearby ocean. The plaque underneath read, "Artemis V Mission Launch at Cape Canaveral. Last Manned Flight to the Moon."

"This is really good," she noted. "Who painted this?"

Before Kristin could answer, the phone on her desk rang. She held up her hand in a 'one moment' signal and picked up the receiver. "Mr. Tracy's office, this is Kristin, may I help you?"

Tally bent over, trying to decipher the signature on the painting. The first name looked like it began with a "V," but she couldn't be sure. Victor? Vladimir?

There was movement in the hallway outside. Her reporter's instincts telling her that it was probably time to go before she pushed her luck too far, Tally waved at Kristin and swiftly exited the office. As she walked back down the corridor toward the elevators, the doors opened and a beautiful blonde woman got out, followed by a craggy-faced older man in a dark suit that looked almost like a uniform. The woman looked familiar to her, but Tally couldn't place her. Then, as she stepped into the elevator and punched the button for the lobby, she heard a voice call out, "Lady Penelope! What a pleasant surprise. Is Mr. Tracy expecting you?"

Tally hit the stop button and stuck her head out of the doorway. She watched an auburn-haired woman greet the blonde she had just seen exit the elevator. "Rosemary, how wonderful to see you," the blonde said in a rich, elegant upper class British accent. "Yes, he's expecting me. I said I'd stop by for a few minutes on the way to my business meeting."

The elevator alarm rang shrilly, forcing Tally to let go of the stop button and allow the doors to close. She recalled the woman now – Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward. What were the odds, she thought, that she would see her here at the Tracy Corp. offices right after hearing about her being at International Rescue's correspondence service in London the day before…

She stopped dead. Downright astronomical, that's what the odds were. And even more so after the sudden, vivid memory that flashed into her mind – she was standing at a vidphone booth in the hospital in Australia, smiling at the three people who walked by, a very pretty Eurasian girl, a handsome man in his late fifties, and a lovely, elegant blonde woman with luminous blue eyes… _Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward_.

There was no chance this was a coincidence. Lady Penelope was involved with International Rescue somehow, that was obvious. But how much of this was known to the Tracy Corporation, or to Jeff Tracy himself? That she would have to find out.

She smiled to herself as the elevator rushed down toward the lobby. Piece by piece, the puzzle was coming together, and now she had a brand new lead to investigate.

* * *

Scott came in through the Tracy Corp. doors in a big hurry, brushing snowflakes off the shoulders of his coat. He glanced at his watch as he crossed toward the elevators. Five-thirty. Shit. He had to make a couple of quick vidphone calls and then get back out to do what he had been looking forward to for two days with a mixture of nerves, excitement and apprehension. He had tracked down Tally's apartment address and phone number with the help of a local IR agent, and had picked up the vidphone receiver several times, intending to leave her a message. But each time he hung up before her message ended, realizing that he had no idea what to say, and that it would kill him to have to wait for her response anyway. He had finally decided to go there and ask her to dinner in person. But it would be a moot point if he didn't reach her apartment before she made other plans for the evening.

"Mr. Tracy!" a man called to him just as he was about to hang a right towards the elevator bank. Scott turned to see one of the engineers from the civil engineering division approaching with an envelope. "I've been trying to catch you. Your father was asking for these specs on the Crest Valley bridge project…he wanted you to deliver them personally."

Behind him, the executive elevator doors opened and Tally came out, deep in thought about what she had just discovered. She walked out of the elevator area and into the main lobby.

"Thanks, Stan," Scott said, taking the envelope from the engineer. "I'll make sure he gets them."

He turned back toward the elevator bank, heading for the one that would take him to the executive floor. The doors were still open from Tally's exit seconds before.

Tally pushed through the doors into the cold street outside. It was dark and snowing lightly. She decided to go straight home and work on her research. Pizza and a large mug of hot chocolate with marshmallows sounded real good right about now, and she was anxious to investigate further into Lady Penelope's connection with International Rescue.

She had no idea how close she'd come to solving another large piece of the puzzle… But that piece was well on his way up to the executive floor by now.

* * *

The heat was on the blink again. Tally sighed as she entered her apartment and felt the chill in the air. She picked up the vidphone and left yet another message for her building supervisor, then changed out of her street clothes into a warm sweater and jeans. She headed for the kitchen to make herself that mug of hot chocolate, considering what toppings she wanted on her pizza tonight. As the milk was heating on the stove, the door buzzer sounded.

She headed to the wall unit and pressed the button. "Hello?"

"Tally? It's Scott. Can I come up?"

"Scott? Scott who? I don't…"

Then it hit her._ Oh, my God._

She couldn't breathe. Her lungs simply refused to drag in air. All she could do was reach out and hit the button that would buzz him into the building.

It seemed like forever before she heard the knock at her door. She crossed what had suddenly become miles of carpet and took a deep breath before unlocking and opening the door.

He was standing there, looking unbelievably handsome in charcoal gray Armani, snowflakes melting on his coat and in his dark brown hair. She just stared.

"Hi," he said at last. She was just as beautiful as he had remembered, and all he could do for a long moment was look at her.

"Hello," she said weakly. "This is…I didn't expect…"

"I know," he said quickly, "It's very rude of me to just stop by like this. But you did say if I was ever in town…"

Tally found her voice in a rush. "Oh, God, yes, of course I did… I just never thought… Come in, please."

He smiled as she stood back to allow him in. "Thanks."

Tally closed the door, aware of how much her heart was racing. She willed herself to calm down – then her pulse quickened again as she remembered all her research papers, scattered around the apartment. If he saw them…

She scanned the room quickly…good, they were all still in her bedroom from the previous night. "So…" she said, "Do you come here often?"

Scott grinned at the continuation of their joke from the New Jersey rubble field. "Actually, no. But since I'm in town for a couple of days…" He trailed off, as if uncertain how to proceed.

"Yes?" she said, prompting him as she turned from her hasty visual check of the living room. Their eyes met, and time ground to a halt. The air in the apartment was suddenly too thin to breathe.

Then he wrinkled his nose, breaking the moment. "Is something burning?"

"Oh, God, the milk…I was making hot chocolate…" Tally rushed into the kitchen and grabbed the boiled-over milk pan off the stove. Conscious of Scott standing in the doorway watching her, she wiped up the mess and sighed. "I'm not much of a cook. Can't even boil milk without burning it at least once."

"Well, you don't have to cook tonight, if you don't want to," he said. He paused for a moment, then plunged ahead. "I thought maybe we could have dinner…"

She turned. "Dinner?"

"If you're free," he added hastily. "I know, I shouldn't have assumed… I mean, you probably have plans…"

"No…really," she said. "I mean, I did have plans…"

"Oh," he said, face falling.

"But I can cancel. I think the pizza delivery guy will get over it."

"Great," he said, grinning, clearly relieved. "If he gives you trouble, let me know."

She looked at him again and the expression in his eyes turned her insides to hot liquid. Her brain quit working. All she could do was just stand there and look at him.

For one tense, crazy moment, she was sure he was going to step forward and take her in his arms. She could literally see the thought running through his mind. Then he shook himself out of it with an effort. "Well," he said, clearing his throat a little. "Pick you up at eight?"

She nodded, feeling very light-headed. He was still gazing at her, and she had to put a hand out to steady herself against the stove. She searched her mind desperately for something to say, but his physical proximity was effectively robbing her of intelligent thought.

"I should get going…" he said at last, reluctantly. "You probably want to get ready…"

Following his eyes, she glanced down at her sweater and jeans. "Ah, yes. Kind of. Unless we're going out for pizza."

"I had something a little fancier in mind," he admitted.

"Oh, I get it. Some place with a dress code," she grinned.

"Yeah," he grinned back, "I made reservations, and everything."

"Oooh," she said, "I shall have to iron something in honor of the occasion."

He laughed. She followed him to the door. He opened it, turning to give her a last lingering glance before heading out into the corridor. "See you at eight," he said.

"Yes," she said.

He paused, and once again she could see how badly he wanted to kiss her. It was written all over his face. She held her breath.

But then he turned and was gone. Tally closed the door behind him, leaning back against it for support, her legs shaky. Wow, she thought. Wow.

_Take that, mother,_ she smiled suddenly to herself. _And I didn't even have to wear a dress._


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**

_THIRTEEN_

**

Tally's bedroom looked like a bomb had hit it.

She had hastily gathered up all her computer disks and research materials and shoved them out of sight under the bed, but now all available surfaces were covered once again – piled high with what looked like every piece of clothing and jewelry and every pair of shoes she owned. In the middle of it all, a frazzled, nervous Tally was trying on what felt like the 112th combination.

She looked at herself in the mirror, and made a face. No. Back to the drawing board.

_Shit,_ she thought, glancing at her watch,_ seven thirty. He's going to be on his way here any minute._

* * *

_Shit,_ he thought, glancing at his watch,_ seven-thirty. I have to go pick her up any minute._

He checked himself in the mirror absently, not really seeing what he was looking at. His mind was on Tally and the way he had felt when he saw her again just a short while ago. God, she was beautiful…the soft honey-gold of her hair, the curve of her cheek, her expressive sea-green eyes…

He shook his head at himself in wonder…he barely knew this woman, and yet every time he saw her, the need to reach out and take her in his arms grew stronger and stronger. He had come so very close to giving in to that overwhelming feeling when he was leaving her apartment, and only his ingrained sense of what constituted good behavior, not to mention his sincere desire not to blow it with her, had held him back. And now he was going to spend the entire evening with her…

_What the hell am I doing?_ His gut churned suddenly. It was beginning to dawn on him that he was getting in over his head here. This wasn't a casual date, or a weekend fling. This was someone he wanted to get to know better. He wanted to spend time with her, to talk to her, find out all about her. He wanted to know what she liked, what she didn't like, what her favorite color was, what she ate for dinner…what she ate for breakfast…

He stared unhappily at his reflection, thinking about the one huge, insurmountable obstacle that stood between them. She already knew he was International Rescue, so he couldn't pull the "I used to be in the air force and now I design aircraft for the Tracy Corp." routine with her, the way he had so many other times, with other women. She knew the truth, and that created a monumental security hazard that effectively gave him no way to take this any further. He couldn't have a relationship with this girl – it wasn't possible.

Which meant he couldn't go back there tonight. He just couldn't.

He had to do what was right. For International Rescue, for the safety of his family – if not for himself.

He sagged into a chair, eyes falling reluctantly on the vidphone beside the bed.

* * *

Tally was finally happy with her choice – a sea-blue silk sheath dress that was almost the same color as her eyes, elegant and just sexy enough without being overt. Her hair was softly upswept, held by a single clasp, her jewelry gold and very simple.

She paused, feeling the butterflies stir again in her stomach as she thought about Scott. She had never been this affected by a man before in her life. Not even her first love, a fierce but unrequited passion at the age of fifteen for the quarterback of her high school's football team, had been able to make her pulse race like this, her body feeling as if it was melting down and fusing together whenever he was around. Every time she looked into Scott's eyes she felt like she was falling into them, drowning in the need to reach out, to touch him, to hold him. She wondered what it would be like to kiss him…

The almost overwhelming feeling made her suddenly angry. _ Christ, Tally, don't be so stupid. You're not twelve, and he's not some prince coming to rescue you from your enchanted tower._ She sat down hard on the edge of the bed. She had to do better than this. She couldn't blow it, not now, not when she was so close to everything she'd worked so hard for. _You're on the job tonight, so think like a reporter. This is your big chance to get him to really open up. He's just a guy. And guys suck, remember? And in any case, you've gotta face it – this one is way too good to be true. A looker like that? You've got to be kidding. He's probably got someone like you in every major city in the world. They get around, that International Rescue bunch._

She thought deliberately about Mason. Then she thought about Richard. And then she thought about the rest of the long line of men who had let her down and stomped on her heart.

There. That was better. Back in control again.

The vidphone rang. She walked over and picked up the receiver. "Hello." She listened, her face falling. "Oh," she said, disappointment clear in her voice. "I see… No, really…I understand. Maybe next time…"

The door buzzer made her turn toward the living room. "I've got to go… No, Mother, it's not the pizza guy…my date is here. Yes, my date… Hello? Mother?"

She smiled to herself as she replaced the receiver and crossed to buzz Scott into the building. _Mother, if I'd known it was that easy to get you off the phone, I'd have tried that trick years ago…_

_

* * *

_

Scott had tried to call her from the Tracy penthouse, but he couldn't tell her like that, not over the vidphone. He had to see her in person, had to find a way to explain to her that this couldn't be, was never meant to be. On the way to her apartment he ran the facts through his mind a thousand times, reasoning that she was an intelligent person, she'd get it. She'd understand. By the time he arrived, he finally thought he was ready.

Then she opened the door, and the sight of her took his breath away all over again. "You look beautiful," he said softly.

Tally felt the flush warm her cheeks. "You like it? Because I can always put the sweatshirt back on…"

"Oh, no," he said hastily. "This is much…better."

"Thank you. You look pretty spiffy yourself, by the way. Armani is definitely your color."

"This old thing?" he grinned. "Where's your coat?"

Outside the building, he led her to the sleek black Mercedes parked at the curb. He held the passenger door open for her, and she slipped into the luxurious leather seat as he closed the door again and came around to the driver's side. She watched as he pulled the powerful car away from the curb, handling it with almost subconscious ease. "Nice car. Funny, though, I could have sworn you'd show up in something red and shiny."

He glanced at her. "Really?"

"Well, you do fly a rocket," she pointed out with a smile. "A pretty big one, too."

"Yep," he grinned. "I guess I work it all out in the air."

Tally laughed. "So, no compensation necessary?"

"None whatsoever, I promise you." Their eyes met for a moment and her mouth went dry at the heat in his expression.

She wrenched her eyes away and stared out at the traffic streaming by in the other direction, headlights like white diamonds against the night. "So," she said finally. "What brings you into town?"

"Company business," he said. "Meetings to go to, papers to sign, you know."

She smiled at the twist of his mouth. "Even International Rescue has to go to eight-thirty a.m. meetings, huh?"

He grinned. "Believe it or not. We all have to take turns. Our…boss thinks it's good for us to see the other side of things occasionally."

"You sound like it's not exactly a labor of love."

"This part? No. I'm not so good at the behind-the-desk stuff. I can't wait to get home."

"I could ask you where that is," she said lightly, "But I don't suppose you'd tell me."

He shook his head. "No."

"Well, here's an easy one. Where are we going?"

"_Mademoiselle Takata's_. I hear it's pretty popular."

"You got reservations at _Mademoiselle Takata's_?" Tally was impressed despite herself. "That's pretty tough. My boss can't even get them, and he's…"

She trailed off, catching herself just in time. "Connected," she finished.

Scott didn't seem to notice her hesitation. "You mean, connected, or _connected_?" he asked, saying the last one with a bad impression of a Sicilian accent.

Tally laughed. "I didn't know Groucho Marx was Italian."

Scott rolled his eyes. "Well, I haven't tripped over any violin cases in his office yet," she continued. "So I'm guessing the former. He just knows a lot of people."

"What does he do, your boss?" he asked.

Her mouth quirked. "You mean, what do _I_ do?"

He flicked a glance at her, caught. _ We're both fishing,_ she realized.

She thought carefully before responding. "I work for a publishing house. Mostly copy editing work right now. Lots of long hours and weekends. But hopefully it'll lead to something better, eventually."

"You want to be a writer?"

"Yes," she said, surprised at his intuition, happy to realize that she didn't have to fabricate this part, at least. Despite her experience as a reporter, she felt very bad about lying to this man, and the feeling wouldn't go away no matter how hard she tried. "Since I was a kid. When the other kids were drawing pictures in kindergarten, I was writing stories with my crayons. I couldn't draw worth a damn anyway."

"Neither could I," he grinned. "I do great stick-figures, though."

She sighed. "I always envied people who could draw. It must be amazing to be able to look at something beautiful and reproduce it on paper."

His eyes were on her reflection in the windshield. "Yeah," he said softly.

She glanced around at his tone, but his eyes were already back on the road. "One of my brothers inherited most of the artistic talent in the family," he said. "He's so talented… I'm in awe of him sometimes, the things he can do."

"Big family?" she asked.

"Kind of," he nodded, but he didn't elaborate. She let it rest for now, careful not to push too far, too soon. They had the whole night ahead of them.

Moments later, they were pulling up at _Mademoiselle Takata's_. Scott handed the car over to the valet and they hurried inside out of the bitter cold.

Scott helped her out of her coat, Tally watching as his eyes swept the foyer. She got the impression he was taking a quick inventory, checking where everything was. She wondered suddenly if there was ever a time when he wasn't on alert, when the guard was down and he was able to just relax.

He gestured for her to wait a moment and he stepped forward to speak with the Maitre d'. Tally saw the man's face change from the usual studied indifference to impressed attention, straightening up visibly. He nodded and took them into the main room himself, leading them straight to a very private, premium table. A waiter appeared as if by magic, bearing champagne. He showed the bottle to Scott, who nodded. The waiter popped the cork and poured the glasses, then discreetly withdrew.

"_Mademoiselle Takata's_, a VIP table _and_ instant Veuve Cliquot?" Tally raised her eyebrows. "You must be blackmailing somebody."

"Naah. I eat here all the time. The owner, what's-his-name, he's almost family."

"_She's_ almost family," she corrected. "Unless… That's it, isn't it – Mademoiselle Takata is really a guy!"

"Shhh," Scott grinned. "It's supposed to be a secret."

Tally took a sip of her champagne. "Mmmm," she said. "You even picked a good year. Are you real?"

She meant it as a joke, but their eyes met and it happened again, that feeling deep inside that she was losing herself. She tried to take a deep breath but her lungs wouldn't inflate.

He broke it first this time, taking a quick gulp of champagne. He looked around the restaurant as if really seeing the décor for the first time. It was aggressively modern and rather cold, predominately black and gray with the occasional splash of red – dotted with intermittent clumps of oddly tortured-looking ikebana. To Scott, the stark, twisted arrangements looked like something left behind after a nuclear explosion.

A waiter passed close by with a plate of something that was completely unrecognizable. Tally saw Scott's expression as he watched it go by. "Not a fan of Franco-Japanese nouvelle cuisine, huh?"

"Franco-Japanese nouvelle… What the heck is _that_?"

Tally grinned inwardly. Mr. International Rescue wasn't quite the smooth operator he had appeared to be, obviously. "You made reservations, and you didn't even know what kind of food they serve here?"

He stared at her, caught. "Well, I, ah, I didn't actually make the reservations myself…"

"Uh-huh." She kept her face serious, enjoying his discomfort.

Scott's mouth twisted. "I had my…a friend make them. I'm not in town often enough to know what's "in" this week," he added defensively. "I wanted…"

She smiled, letting him off the hook. "I think it's sweet."

"Huh?"

"Oh, God," she interrupted him. Another waiter was passing nearby, and she was staring at the dish he was carrying with a kind of restrained revulsion.

She caught the waiter's attention, indicating the plate. _"Excusez-moi,"_ she asked, _"Qu'est-ce que c'est?"_

"_Calamari a la pêche, mademoiselle,"_ the waiter informed her in a slightly irritated tone, as if surprised at her display of ignorance.

Tally tried unsuccessfully to hide her dismay. "Oh, dear. And is that squid ink pasta?"

The look on Scott's face was priceless. "I've got a brother who likes this stuff, and even _he_ wouldn't eat that."

The waiter regarded him disdainfully. "I'm sure he wouldn't, _m'sieur._"

He was gone before Scott realized he'd been insulted. "Well, how do you like that?"

Tally was hiding her face behind the menu, shoulders shaking with the effort of suppressing her amusement. "Oh, no," she said suddenly.

"What?"

"He wasn't making it up. It's right here. And listen to this…they flambé it at your table in a fine rice wine…"

Scott tried heroically to hold back the laughter. "Well, that's gotta improve it, right?"

Tally snorted. "And by the way, just to make your dining experience complete, the chef recommends an appetizer of _saumon cru à la mousse d'avocat avec_…ew!"

Scott's French took a moment to catch up. "Salmon in avocado mousse…"

"…On a bed of shitake mushrooms…in snail butter!" She managed to finish before dissolving into peals of helpless laughter that drew stares from the tables in the vicinity.

"Oh, God," Scott choked, "Don't tell me…they flambé _that_ at your table, too…"

"They couldn't possibly," she spluttered, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. "The fumes would wipe out everyone in a fifty-foot radius!"

"You'd better be careful," he grinned, nodding in the direction of the disdainful waiter, who was watching them from across the room. "Napoleon Bonaparte over there will spit in your squid ink spaghetti."

"Oh, Scott," she gasped, trying to get her breath. "I'm so sorry, I know you put yourself through all this just for me, but I can't eat this stuff…"

"Oh, thank God," he said fervently. "Do you want to get out of here?"

"Yes, please," she said.

As soon as they were back in the car they fell apart all over again. Scott laughed until his sides hurt. "Did you see that guy's face? The one at the front desk?"

She nodded. "We'll never be able to go back in there. They'll have us on the _persona non grata_ list forever."

"Well, you did tell them their snail butter needed more garlic," he pointed out.

"No, I said it needed more _saki_," she corrected. "You've been around jet engines too long – your ears are shot."

"Probably," he grinned.

"So," she said, calming down at last and glancing around her. "What now?"

Scott shrugged. "I took my best shot. Now it's your turn."

"Well, what kind of food do you want?"

"Someplace that has steak," he decided. "You can't go wrong with that."

"Surely you jest," she said. "I've had steak that would have embarrassed the cow that used to wear it. And in good restaurants, too."

"Bull," he said.

She raised her eyebrows. "Well, steer, anyway," he amended. "They don't use the cows for steaks."

"Yet another example of discrimation against women," she declared. "I'm boycotting the steak just for that."

He chuckled. She glanced at him. Despite seeming to be at ease, he had that watchful look again, scanning his surroundings, missing nothing. "Do you ever relax?" she asked suddenly.

"What?" The sudden change of subject threw him.

"You were doing this in the restaurant, too – even when we were making fun of the calamari."

"Doing what?"

"Acting like the FBI. Sweeping the area, like you're expecting something to happen. Would it help if we found an accident so you could rescue someone?"

Scott glanced at her, startled. He was silent for a moment. Then: "I'm sorry. I guess I need to get out more. This isn't…what I normally do."

"I gathered that," she smiled. "Well, what _do_ you normally do? For fun, I mean?"

A mischievous light came into his eyes. "Seriously?"

"Uh-huh," she nodded. "I really want to know."

Scott grinned. "All right. You asked for it."

* * *

"Close your eyes," he said as the helijet began to descend out of the sky.

"What?" Tally stared at him.

"Sorry – security reasons," Scott shrugged apologetically. "If you found your way back here, I'd have to kill you."

She burst out laughing, but closed her eyes obediently. "This feels so silly."

"Shhhh." Scott grinned. "Behave yourself. And no peeking."

"Girl Scout's honor."

"Oh, you were never a Girl Scout," he said.

"I was too. Until I got thrown out."

"Aha!" he said triumphantly. "What did you do…make fun of the food?"

She hit him.

The helijet touched down and she felt the cold air hit her as Scott opened the door. He helped her out, lifting her down to the ground so she wouldn't have to negotiate the steps blind. She let her eyes open just a tiny bit as he turned to the pilot, raising her eyebrows a fraction as she caught a glimpse of the credit card he was paying with. A black American Express card. _Jesus. Unlimited credit. You could buy your own island with one of those…_

She squeezed her eyes back shut as he turned around. He took her hand, leading her forward. "Where are we going?" she asked.

"You'll see," he promised. "It's not far."

A couple of minutes later they stopped again and she heard the tones of a number sequence being keyed into a touch pad. There was a grinding sound and something large and metal began to move. After a moment, Scott took her hand again and led her forward. Behind them she heard the grinding sound again.

"Okay," he said after a moment. "You can open your eyes now."

Tally did so, blinking in the bright lights of the huge hangar they were now standing inside. Filling her vision was the most beautiful private jet she had ever seen – all graceful curves, clean lines and sweeping wings, totally unlike the commercial airliners and clunky, angular helijets she was used to seeing. This plane looked like it was made to fly – it felt as though it weren't made of metal but was really alive, a creature just sleeping, ready to leap into the air at the slightest invitation.

"Well?" he asked. "What do you think?"

"It's beautiful," she said. "I've never seen anything like it."

"We call her the Dragonfly," Scott said, his voice glowing with pride. He walked forward under the aircraft's wing, reaching up almost subconsciously to trail his hand across the burnished metal. It was a gesture of pure love. "Would you like to see why?"

"Really?"

He grinned at her wide-eyed excitement. "Really."

He keyed the combination that would open the entry hatch. He turned, looking at her attire thoughtfully. Then he disappeared for a minute, to a locker across the other side of the hangar. Tally glanced around her surreptitiously, trying to find something that would tell her where she was. There was a bulletin board near the lockers Scott had headed towards, but it was too far away to make out anything pinned to it.

Scott was back beside her. "Give me that coat. You'll be more comfortable in this."

The air force style leather jacket smelled faintly of him, as though he'd worn it not too long ago. She slipped it on, feeling absurdly like she was back in high school and the captain of the football team had just given her his letter jacket to wear.

He grinned. "It suits you," he said, lifting a hand to straighten the collar on one side. His gaze was soft, and for a moment she was sure he was going to kiss her – but then he took her hand instead and led her to the open hatch. "Watch your step," he warned.

He made sure she was strapped securely into the co-pilot's seat, and then she watched him as he ran swiftly through the pre-flight checks. She could feel the change in him – he was in his element now, and it showed.

He brought the engines to life and booted the Dragonfly forward, reaching to flip the remote switch that would open the hangar doors. Tally watched as they rolled toward the rapidly widening opening. "Scott…are we supposed to be doing this?" she asked.

"No," he admitted. "My boss would kill me if he knew."

"I won't tell him if you won't," she promised.

He gave her a conspiratorial grin. "Okay, now close your eyes again."

"Aw…"

"Come on," he said. "No whining. You know the rules."

Grumbling, she shut her eyes. Through her closed lids, she could tell the difference in the light when the jet left the hangar.

Checking that she wasn't peeking, Scott taxied the jet out to the end of the Tracy Aerospace runway, swung the nose around and locked the brakes. "T.A. Tower, this is Dragonfly. Request immediate takeoff clearance."

"Dragonfly, this is T.A. Tower," the voice came back. "Out for a midnight spin, Scott?"

"Hey, Art," Scott grinned. "Yeah, I thought I'd take one more run with her while I'm still here."

"I hear that, Scott…" he could hear the smile of appreciation in the tower controller's voice. "Well, she's your baby. All right, Dragonfly, you have light to moderate cloud cover, visibility of five miles, eight knot winds at 004 degrees. You are clear for takeoff."

"Roger, Tower."

Scott eased the throttles forward. The thunder began to build behind him, thrumming through the jet's sleek frame. Scott watched the gauges, then released the brakes, simultaneously pushing the engines into full afterburner. Kicked forward by the sudden explosion of power, the Dragonfly hurtled forward down the runway. Almost immediately the nose wheel came up off the ground and the sleek craft leaped into the air. Even though he had designed her himself, he was still amazed by how much this plane loved to fly. Like him, she was most at home in the air.

"Okay, Tally," he said as the altimeter reached three thousand feet. "You can look now."

Tally opened her eyes, surprised by how high they had already climbed. "What did he mean, when he said this was your baby?"

"I designed her," he said, trying to make light of it.

She looked at him with new appreciation. "You did? Wow. A man of many talents."

He shrugged, a little uncomfortably. "Well, mister designer," she prompted. "You promised to show me what she can do."

That mischievous look was back in his eyes. "How's your stomach?"

"Great," she said confidently. "Do your worst."

"You asked for it."

He opened up the throttles, kicking her into afterburner, pointing the nose up steeply. The Dragonfly hurled herself toward the stars at full speed, the thunder howling free behind her. Scott rolled her until the speed fell off, bringing her up and over on to her back in a high, soaring loop. She was barely over stall as she reached for the top of the curve, but Scott was wearing the airplane now, flying this creature of metal and plexiglass as if her wings were an extension of his body. He made her hang breathlessly, playing with the forces of velocity and gravity as if he had been born in the air, then the jet fell through, the nose right where he wanted it, and he flipped her easily out of the spin. _Right on the money,_ he thought, grinning with satisfaction – and up they went again, screaming into a full vertical stall, hanging upright this time for that incredible moment of weightlessness before plunging back toward the earth. Beside him he was aware that Tally was shrieking with delight, loving every moment, reaching up to touch the cockpit ceiling with both hands as if the Dragonfly were her own personal rollercoaster.

"Okay?" he asked her as they leveled out again at the bottom of the loop.

"More," she begged. He laughed and rolled the Dragonfly to the right, corkscrewing her over and over before flipping her on to her back for the next soaring arc into the sky.

Scott put the sleek jet through her paces, pushing her to the limits of her performance, loving the finger-responsiveness of her controls. They climbed and plunged and rolled and spun until finally the fuel levels forced him, reluctantly, to bring the fun to an end. They broke through the thick winter cloud cover once again and this time he leveled off, the Dragonfly seeming to float effortlessly now above the blanket of white between them and the earth.

"Oh," Tally said, gazing around her, drinking in the sight. "This is incredible…"

It was quite a view. The glow of the new crescent moon reflected faintly off the snow-laden clouds below them, turning them into a carpet of spun silver. Up here there was no man-made ambient light to mar the sheer beauty of the stars, clustered thicker than she had ever imagined they would be against the deep black of the night sky.

For a long moment, Tally had no words. At last she said, "I understand now. I can see why you love it up here."

He smiled a little, gazing out at the starfield. "My whole life, all I ever wanted to do was fly. When I was a kid I'd sleep out on the porch in the summer, dreaming of being up here."

"So the pulling-people-out-of-collapsed-parking-garages bit wasn't part of your master plan?" she asked teasingly.

Scott shook his head. "No. That came much later, believe me."

She was silent for another moment, absorbing the impressive majesty of her surroundings once more. "I could get used to this."

He stole a glance at her, realizing that she was telling the truth. The light in her eyes, the slight flush on her cheeks, all were tell-tale signs of someone falling in love with the sky. He had seen that look many times, on the faces of his brothers when they were taking lessons, as well as the cadets he had seen go through flight school in the air force.

"Every time I'm up here, I never want it to end," he said quietly. "Sometimes I just want to point the nose into the sun and just…keep flying. Just to see where it would take me."

She grinned. "Like those barnstormers did, back in the twentieth century. That must have been a great life. Flying from town to town, no strings…"

"No responsibilities…"

"No consequences…"

He smiled sadly. "There are always consequences," he said.

She looked at him then, and for a moment she knew exactly what he was thinking. "Scott…" she began. "There's something…"

The fuel warning buzzed, breaking the moment, startling them both. "What's that?" Tally asked, a shade nervously.

"That's the fuel warning," he said reluctantly. "It means we have to head back now."

"Awww…" Tally stuck out her lower lip in a mock pout.

"Well, it's either turn round now or we'll be walking home."

"Oh, well, since you put it that way…"

Scott grinned and banked the Dragonfly in a high arcing turn, heading back toward Tracy Aerospace.

* * *

"Scott," she said, "How did you know where I lived?"

They were in the car on the way back into town from the airport. Tally had her legs curled up under her on the passenger seat. She was still wearing his air force jacket.

"It wasn't hard to find out," he admitted, grinning a little. "I paid a shady-looking guy in a trench coat."

She laughed. "Sure." She was silent for a moment, then: "What else did shady guy tell you?"

He glanced sideways at her, concern in his eyes now. "Nothing," he said, trying to reassure her. "Tally, I would _never_…"

He was so obviously sincere that the knot of fear in her stomach slowly relaxed again. "Sorry. I overreacted."

"No, you didn't," Scott said. "Everyone likes their privacy. Trust me, nobody knows that better than me."

He grinned suddenly. "You want to know why I did it?"

"Surprise me."

"I kept trying to leave you a message. Everything I came up with sounded really lame. I thought maybe if I saw you in person, you'd…"

He trailed off. She reached out instinctively and touched his hand where it rested on the seat between them. His fingers closed immediately over hers.

They drove in silence for a long few moments, both thinking about the future, neither of them liking what they saw.

A loud rumbling sound startled Tally. "Is that your stomach?"

He grinned sheepishly. "Uh-huh."

"Oh, my God, we never ate," she realized. "You must be starving."

"It's okay," he said. "Don't worry about it."

"No," she said, "I know exactly where we need to go."

They pulled up outside the little restaurant ten minutes later. "O'Hara's Italian Restaurant?" Scott said, reading the sign above the doorway in disbelief.

"It's a long story," she said, "Which I'm sure they'll tell you. In fact, you'll pretty much know everything about them in the first ten minutes."

"Are you sure they're open?" he asked. "The sign isn't lit."

"Doesn't matter," she grinned. "They're in there, trust me."

He parked the car and let her lead him around the back of the building. As they got there the door opened and a handsome, dark-haired young man came out, lugging a large can of garbage. He stopped as he saw Tally and his face broke into a big smile. _"Ciao, bella!"_

Tally hugged him. "Vinnie, this is my…friend, Scott. Scott, meet Vinnie O'Hara."

Vinnie shook Scott's hand, grinning. "Welcome to O'Hara's, man. Any…_friend_ of Tally's is a friend of ours."

Scott grinned back, enjoying Tally's embarrassment a little. He took her hand firmly as they followed Vinnie back into the restaurant.

The kitchen was a bustle of activity, even though it was past midnight. Two Italian women in their sixties sat at the table in the middle, a younger woman stirring a pot on the stove behind them. The smell was heavenly, and Scott felt the emptiness of his stomach hit him.

The two women at the table saw Tally and scrambled up. Tally hugged them both as they fussed over her. "Tally, it's been a long time since you came to see us," the first woman said reproachfully.

"It's only been a month," Tally corrected, smiling. "You know how my job is."

"A month is a long time," the other woman declared. "Have you been eating? You look so skinny."

"Mama, Auntie," the younger woman chided gently, coming around from the stove to hug Tally. "Leave her alone, both of you. She looks fine."

"Thank you, Teresa," Tally smiled.

One of the older women said something in Italian, looking at Scott. The other one chuckled. Teresa made an admonishing face at them and said to Tally, "Mama wants to know who your handsome companion is."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Tally was embarrassed all over again. "Everyone, this is Scott. Scott, this is the O'Hara family…Mama Rosa, her daughter-in-law, Teresa – she and her husband Salvatore own this restaurant – Vinnie you've met, he's Teresa's son, and Mama Rosa's sister, Auntie Olivia Santangelo."

"Hi," Scott said. "Great to meet you all."

"We were out on a date and we got sidetracked," Tally said. "Scott never got to eat and it's all my fault. I couldn't take him home to my cooking..."

"Yep, you dodged a bullet there," Vinnie grinned.

Tally hit him playfully. Mama Rosa and Auntie Olivia had already steered Scott to a seat at the table and were fussing over him, plying him with a basket of fresh Italian bread and a big glass of wine. "Hey, go easy on him," Tally said. "He's not used to you guys yet."

Scott shook his head. "You'd be surprised. This is a lot like home."

"You're Italian?" Auntie Olivia asked doubtfully.

"No," he laughed. "But I have a grandma who might as well be. Every time I'm not in her kitchen she thinks I'm starving to death."

"The escarole and beans is almost ready," Teresa said from the stove. "Vincenzo, bring the plates."

Scott made to stand up, wanting to help, but Teresa waved him back. "Sit down," she smiled. "Tonight, you're a guest. Next time," she winked at Tally before looking back at Scott, "You can help with the dishes."

"I'll help you, Vinnie," Tally said quickly, wanting to do anything right now but meet Scott's eyes.

As they unloaded the dishwasher in the next room, Vinnie said to her, "So, new boyfriend, huh?"

Tally bit her lip. "First date. Who knows?"

Vinnie glanced around at her. "Tally, if you can't see the way he's looking at you, you must be an idiot."

Tally flushed to the roots of her hair. "I know. But it's…complicated."

He grinned. "That's _amore, bella_. It's always complicated."

Tally had to smile. "Just do me one favor, Vinnie. He doesn't like reporters very much. Don't tell him what I do for a living until I've had the chance to win him over, okay?"

Vinnie nodded, clutching his heart with great mock-solemnly. "I swear on the grave of my great aunt Carlotta."

"You don't have a great aunt Carlotta," she said, shaking her head.

"Not any more," he said with a perfectly straight face – then burst out laughing at her expression.

By the time they came back in with the plates, Teresa was ready to serve dinner. The smell was making Scott feel almost faint with hunger, even though he had already consumed half the basket of bread and drunk two glasses of wine. Finally the escarole and beans was on the plates and the family sat down to eat. "Where's Salvatore?" Tally asked.

"His sister's sick," Teresa said. "He went to take some food to the kids."

"This is great, Teresa," Scott said, trying not to literally shovel the food into his mouth.

Teresa shrugged. "My mother calls it peasant food. But we like it."

"I've got to ask," Scott continued. "Where on earth did you get the last name 'O'Hara?'"

"When my father came over to this country from Sicily," Mama Rosa said, "He met another young man on the journey, Brendan O'Hara. They became best friends. They saved their money and opened an auto repair shop. Messina and O'Hara. They worked hard, did very well for themselves. And then my grandfather was killed under one of the cars he was working on. The hydraulic jack slipped and he was crushed instantly."

"Oh," Scott winced. "I'm sorry."

Mama Rosa shrugged. "It was a long time ago. Brendan had not married – the girl he left behind in Ireland refused to come over to America. She didn't want to leave her family and friends. Anyway, Brendan took care of his partner's family – he was a good man. And eventually he and my mother fell in love."

"I love that story," Tally smiled. "It's so romantic."

"Yeah," Vinnie teased. "Especially the part about the hydraulic jack slipping."

"Oh, you're such a guy," she retorted, trying to hit him. He ducked, laughing.

"What do you do, Scott?" Teresa asked.

"Ah…I'm in the, uh, rescue business," Scott said.

"The rescue business?" Vinnie was suddenly interested. "Hey, my brother Marco's a fireman – he's in a ladder company in midtown."

"Well, we do more of the consulting end, really," Scott said, "Designing equipment, outreach, that kind of thing."

Vinnie came around the table and pulled up a chair next to him. "So, I gotta ask you, what do you think of those new helijets the firefighters are testing out in California? The MRP40's."

Scott shook his head. "Not enough horsepower for the payload. I've looked at the specs. They're never going to be able to fly in those weather conditions with a full load."

Tally watched, smiling, as Scott turned around in his chair and he and Vinnie became engrossed in conversation. Teresa saw the look on her face and leaned over. "He's very handsome. Have you known him long?"

Tally shook her head. "No."

Teresa smiled. "Sometimes, you don't need to."

An hour later, despite three cups of Teresa's delicious cappuccino, Tally was beginning to have trouble keeping her eyes open. Having happily consumed half the pot of escarole and beans, Scott had taken off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves to help Vinnie take out the trash and prepare for the morning. "He's a good boy," Auntie Olivia declared to Tally as they watched the two men go outside. "You should hang on to him."

_Yeah,_ Tally thought, the warm glow evaporating as she remembered. _I wish I could._

It must have been on her face, because when he came back in Scott looked at her and paused for a moment. She looked quickly away, feeling his eyes still on her.

"Well," Scott said to nobody in particular, "We should be going. I need to get Tally home before she turns into a pumpkin."

They said their thank yous and goodbyes, the O'Haras all insisting that Scott come back soon, and he smilingly saying that he would if he could. Then he and Tally walked to the car in silence.

"They're great people," Scott said at last.

She nodded. "When I first came to the city and started my…new job, my roommate brought me here to eat all the time. She's Vinnie's cousin – Auntie Olivia's daughter. They practically adopted me. They're so different from my family – it took me a while to get used to all the attention."

He opened the door for her. "I take it your family is less…demonstrative."

"Oh, you could say that. Unless, of course, I did something they didn't like…which was often. Then they got _very_ demonstrative all of a sudden."

She waited while he came around the car and got into the driver's seat. "Your family sounds like so much more fun," she said, unable to keep the wistful note out of her voice.

"Uh-huh," he nodded. "I'm very lucky."

He put the key in the ignition almost reluctantly. "This was fun," he said. "Thanks."

She smiled. "They liked you. I could tell."

He glanced around at her, and the look in his eyes could have melted stone. Tally's breath stilled in her throat. "Better get you home," he said softly, after a long moment.

"Yes," she said.

He pulled the car away from the curb.

* * *

Feeling like he wanted to jump out of his skin, Scott watched silently and unhappily as Tally fished her keys out of her purse. They were both reluctant, neither one of them wanting this night to end. He had the sudden, irrational feeling that as long as he didn't say goodbye to her, as long as she didn't turn her keys in that lock, they could stay suspended somehow in this magical no-man's-land – neither in her world nor in his, free from the restrictions and duties and responsibilities of both.

It was ridiculous, of course. Nothing had changed. She was still the girl of his dreams, and he still couldn't ever have her.

"God," Tally said. "Do you realize it's three a.m.? I'm going to be a wreck tomorrow."

"Today," he corrected, biting back his bitter thoughts. "Sorry. Time flies, and all that…"

"No pun intended?" she smiled back. She unlocked the door. "Scott, it's so late, you want to stay over?" _Oh, God, _she thought immediately, _that wasn't what I meant…_

She turned quickly, embarrassed, stammering out an explanation. "I…I didn't mean…I meant, because you must be tired, and…dammit, I have a guest bedroom…"

He stopped her protests with his mouth.

In her twenty-seven years, Tally had been kissed many times – but it had never been remotely like this. She made a soft moaning sound deep in her throat as the fire raced through her veins, melting her bones, reaching up blindly and helplessly to him, feeling him respond by pulling her even tighter against his body. The blood roared in her ears and she couldn't hear, she couldn't see, she could only feel as his mouth burned into hers, taking her breath away.

After what seemed like an eternity, Scott slowly raised his head and stared down at her. When she opened her eyes at last and saw his expression, she realized that he was every bit as amazed as she was. Maybe more so.

She didn't care. All she wanted was for him to kiss her again. She had no way of knowing that he was hanging on to his sanity by a very slender thread. "Tally…I…God, I'm…" he said, the words all coming out in a jumbled rush.

She wound her arms around his neck and pulled his head back down to hers.

It was lucky, he realized much later, when his mind would function again, that she had already opened her door – because otherwise he would have taken her right there in the hallway. But when he lifted her in his arms, swept away by a torrent of unstoppable need, they crashed against the door and it opened, tumbling them into the dark apartment. Scott swung her around against the wall and her hair came down out of its single clip in a soft cloud of gold. He groaned, burying his face in it, inhaling her perfume.

He had never been so out of control in his life, all his senses filled with the smell and feel and taste of her, but she was matching him move for move, kissing and groping and tearing at his clothes with equal fervor. She gasped as his mouth scalded her neck and shoulders, felt his hands slide up under her dress, ruthlessly sweeping away all obstacles to what he wanted. Then he was lifting her in his arms again and the wall pressed cold and hard against her back, every place he touched her burning like fire. Stunned by his strength and power, she clung to him as he devoured her mouth with his, pulling his body into hers with everything she possessed, wanting him, needing him, needing him _now _with a desperation she had never known she could feel. And then it happened and he became a living breathing part of her and she cried out his name, hearing him gasp something incoherently in her ear as her world went black and turned inside out and stars burst inside her head. She dimly heard his final shout and then his arms went around her and held her trembling body tight against him, pouring with sweat, soaking her right through her dress.

"God," he said at last, when he could speak again. "God."

She reached up and touched his face in wonder, smoothing back the dark, sweat-dampened hair from where it had fallen over his forehead. He stared down at her, his expression tortured with guilt at his loss of control. "Tally…"

"Ssshhh." She reached up on tiptoes to kiss him.

He groaned deeply into her mouth, his hands coming up to hold her head, winding her thick honey gold hair around his fingers. When she looked into his eyes again the fire was back. "Don't stop," she whispered, wanting him with a fierceness that made her body shake. "Never stop."

Scott lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bedroom.

* * *

It was getting light outside.

Scott lay awake, half propped up against the pillows, gazing down at Tally as she slept. She was so beautiful, curled up against him, her head resting peacefully on his stomach, honey gold hair streaming out over his chest. _Oh, God,_ he thought in sudden desperation, _what am I going to do?_

They had made love until exhaustion forced them to stop, and even then they couldn't bear to stop touching each other, still holding and stroking and kissing even though they no longer had the strength to go further. Slowly, gradually, they had become still and drifted off in each other's arms, Scott holding her tightly to him as though his life would end if he couldn't feel every inch of her body against his skin.

He had awakened, suddenly, a few moments ago, and hard, cold reality had come crashing in with a force that left him breathless. His gut churned. He didn't belong here. And he couldn't stay. And it didn't matter that he knew now, had known ever since that sudden, blinding moment that was their first kiss, that he was hopelessly and irrevocably in love with her. Because given his life, his duties and responsibilities, and the overriding need to protect his family, there was no place to go from here.

He stared down at her, trying to memorize everything about her, his heart quietly breaking – knowing he could never see her again. Leaving her was going to be the hardest thing he had ever done in his life. But he had no choice – he had to do the right thing and get out of her apartment now, before she woke up and he did something really stupid.

Like ask her to spend the rest of her life with him.

He lifted her carefully off him and lowered her back to the sheets, bending to kiss her forehead very, very gently. "Goodbye, Tally," he whispered. "I'm sorry…"

Then he slipped quietly off the bed, dressed as quickly as he could and headed out into the night.

Life, he thought bitterly, was a cast iron bitch. And then, if you got lucky, you died.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**

_FOURTEEN_

**

"Now remember, it's really important he keeps up his breathing exercises," Elizabeth said. "And make sure he does the magnetic field therapy for at least two hours, twice a day. I know it's hard to get him to sit still but it will really help his ribs heal faster, not to mention ease the pain."

"I am in the room, you know," Alan pointed out drily.

Elizabeth grinned, glancing from Gordon to her patient. "I know, Alan. I'm sorry. I'm a doctor…we're not trained to talk to the patients."

Gordon choked on his orange juice. Elizabeth banged him on the back sympathetically.

Jeff paused beside the table. "Are you all packed?"

Elizabeth nodded, standing up. "Yes, Jeff. Thank you for being a wonderful host."

Jeff offered his hand. "It's me who should be thanking you, Elizabeth, for dropping everything like this to come here and take care of my son."

She grinned. "You deserve most of the credit. It wasn't like you were going to let me say no."

Jeff shrugged, a little embarrassed. "I suppose I'm a little one-track-minded when it comes to my sons' welfare. I do my best to keep them all out of trouble, but it's good to know you're out there for the times when it doesn't work out that way."

"Alan did the hard stuff. I had it easy, really. A week of Kyrano's cooking…you should advertise this place as a spa."

"Yeah," Gordon said, "But you still had to look at Alan's face every day."

"Oh, he's a pretty good patient, really, apart from the usual 'when-am-I-getting-out-of-this-bed" whining…"

"Again, still in the room," Alan said pointedly, raising his hand. Everyone laughed.

Elizabeth leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Be good, Al. And call me if you need me."

"I will," he grinned. "Thanks for everything."

"Come on," Jeff said, "I'll walk you down to the plane."

With Jeff carrying her suitcase and doctor's bag, they took the cliff elevator down to the runway. As they came out at the bottom, the sound of an approaching jet made Jeff pause for a moment, shading his eyes to stare up into the morning sky. "That looks like Scott," he said at last. "I wonder what he's doing home so early?"

"Too many paper cuts?" she suggested with an impish smile. "I'd better wait for him. He might need a doctor."

They walked along the path that led around the bluff to the boat jetty. "You know, you pack light, for a woman," Jeff remarked, swinging the case to demonstrate how light it was. "What've you got in here, a toothbrush?"

"You live on a tropical island, Jeff," she grinned. "What am I going to need?"

Jeff waved her ahead of him up the jetty steps, pausing for a moment as an incongruous thought struck him. How nice it would be if one of his sons should one day marry a woman he liked and respected as much as he did Elizabeth.

But that was out of the question, he reminded himself, at least for the foreseeable future. International Rescue was a secret organization, and had to remain that way to stay effective. No outsiders, under any circumstances, could or should know about what really went on here. It was just too dangerous. It only took one slip of the tongue, to the wrong person in the wrong place, and the whole house of cards could come tumbling down.

As they neared the seaplane, a movement caught their eyes. Virgil was standing on the near pontoon, leaning into the engine through the open access panel. He saw them coming and straightened up, wiping his hands on a rag hooked into his belt. He closed the panel and jumped back to the jetty.

"I, uh, ran your preflight," he said before either Elizabeth or Jeff could speak. "Everything checks out. You've got a full load of fuel and you're good to go."

"Thank you, Virgil," Elizabeth said softly.

Virgil avoided her eyes, not daring to look directly at her. He reached out and took her case from Jeff. "I've got it, dad."

Jeff nodded. He turned to Elizabeth. "Have a safe flight. Call us when you get home so we know you're okay."

He was surprised but undeniably pleased when she impulsively reached out and hugged him. "Thank you, Jeff. I will."

Assuring his father that he would be up in a moment, Virgil watched him go back down the jetty and disappear back around the bluff. Then he turned to the woman beside him. "Liz…"

"Goodbye, Virgil," she said, reaching for her case.

He stopped her, his hand on her arm. "You can't leave like this. Please."

The desperate crack in his voice made her pause. She felt her chest tighten suddenly with the need to reach out and take him into her arms, hating to see him in pain like this. But she was in pain too, she reminded herself, and she couldn't give in now. If they were to have any kind of chance, she had to stand her ground. "Virgil, nothing's changed. I'm not going to hide from your family any more. Especially when you won't even tell me why you need me to."

"Why can't you just trust me?" he burst out - realizing as soon as he had said it how lame the words sounded.

She looked at him, seeing the exhaustion and misery etched clearly on his face. Her eyes were bright with tears. "I do trust you. You're the one who won't trust _me_. What can be so bad that you think I don't love you enough to get past it?"

"It's not like that," he said in a low voice.

"Then what is it like?" she asked. "Help me, Virgil. Help me to understand."

He stared at her for a long moment. Then he looked away, staring out across the water. "I can't."

She brushed a tear from her cheek, squaring her shoulders determinedly. "Then I can't either."

"I know," he said, very quietly.

* * *

High above them, Scott banked the Tracy jet on to base leg of his approach run.

It had been a long, lonely flight home.

Deep down, he realized now, he had seen this moment coming – known, maybe even from the first time he saw Tally, that it would turn out like this. The logical, rational part of his brain had tried so hard, every step of the way, to talk him out of seeing her again, but in the end the need to be with her had been so strong that it had overridden everything else.

And now, after the most incredible night of his life, he'd screwed everything up completely, compounding all his other errors by panicking and sneaking out like a complete heel in the middle of the night, without even saying goodbye.

It didn't help to remind himself that if he'd stayed to say goodbye, he would have stayed, period. And then all hell would have broken loose.

He'd gone straight from her apartment to the Tracy penthouse, but once there he found he couldn't do anything but pace like a caged tiger, unable to deal with what he had done and unable to think of any way to put it right. Two hours of that and he couldn't take it anymore. He'd gone down to his father's office and attacked the pile of reports left on the desk from yesterday.

There was no hiding the look on Rosemary's face when she arrived an hour later to find him there, unshaven and in rumpled clothes, concentrating almost feverishly on a double blind study on potential alloys for aircraft engine casings. He brushed aside her questions, suspecting that he wasn't fooling her, and managed to stay there for another two hours, until the torment got too great and he didn't trust himself to keep away from the telephone anymore. He had to get away from there, put some physical distance between himself and Tally before his resolve crumbled and he gave in to what he so fiercely, desperately wanted. He made a lame excuse about not feeling well and went straight upstairs to pack.

Even after he reached Tracy Aerospace and was rolling the sleek company jet out of the hangar toward the runway, his mind was still going round and round like an animal caught in a trap, trying to think of some way that he could go back and make it work. But there was no way, and he knew it. It was better for Tally that she think him a complete bastard and hate his guts, even though he could hardly stand the thought. He knew that anything else would simply make it worse for both of them.

Although frankly, he didn't know how anything _could_ feel worse than this. The sense of loss was more devastating than he could ever have imagined - he felt as if a huge part of him had been torn bleeding from his chest, leaving a gaping hole behind. He wanted to talk to her. He wanted to explain why he had done what he did. Why he had left without a word.

He wanted to go back and take her in his arms and never, ever let her go.

But he couldn't, and with every additional mile he put between himself and New York, he died inside a little bit more.

"Tracy Island from Tracy Two, permission to land, over." The sight of his beautiful island home, set like a priceless emerald in the blue, blue waters of the South Pacific, was usually a sight that both lifted his spirits and calmed his nerves. Today, it wasn't helping.

"Scott?" Jeff's voice came over the comlink. "I thought that looked like you on approach. What happened, son? We weren't expecting you until tomorrow night."

"Yeah, well, you know…sometimes things don't take as long as you think." Scott winced a little at how lame the explanation sounded, but his father didn't comment.

"Okay, son, you can fill us in when you're down." Jeff switched to air traffic controller mode. "Area is free of traffic, Tracy Two. You're clear to land."

"F.A.B." Scott turned smoothly on to final approach, eyes sweeping the gauges, checking height, airspeed and rate of descent with the automatic ease of long practice. He slid the powerful jet into her landing groove, coming in low over the runway, chopping back on the power, bringing the nose up. The jet flared right on target, three-pointing perfectly, her wheels touching down on the tarmac with almost no jar at all. Any other time Scott might have given himself mental points for the landing…but today he almost didn't notice it. He taxied to the hangar, waiting while the inset door rumbled up into the cliff face. He parked the jet and ran quickly through the post-flight checks, leaving the diagnostic program running as he descended the steps to the hangar floor. He waved to Brains, working on one of the recovery vehicles across the other side. Then he headed for the elevator.

Dumping his bags in his suite, he headed for the lounge. He was greeted by a welcome sight – Alan was sitting with Gordon on one of the couches. Scott broke into a smile. "Al! It's about time you hauled your lazy ass out of bed."

Alan flicked a mock-sour glance at Gordon. "Didn't I tell you he'd say something like that? Let's break four of his ribs and see how he handles it."

Scott grinned. "How're you doing?"

"Much better. I'm off the morphine and Elizabeth says I'll be ready to go back on duty in no time."

"Whoa," Gordon interrupted. "Slow down a bit there. It's going to be at least another three weeks, Al."

"I know, I know," Alan groused. "I'm gonna go crazy sitting around with nothing to do but stare at you people."

"Oh, we'll find plenty for you to do," Scott promised. "And you'll be back to washing the Mole in no time."

"I had to open my big mouth." Alan shook his head.

"Like I'm always telling you…" Gordon ducked a swipe of Alan's nearest arm. "How was New York?" he asked his eldest brother. "You're back early…"

"Yeah, Scott - Rosie give you time off for good behavior?"

Scott turned away to hide the sudden burning in his eyes, grateful for the camouflage of the sunglasses he still wore. "Oh, you know. A guy can only take so much."

"Ain't that the truth," Alan said fervently. "There aren't many things I won't do for dad, but sit in that office at Tracy Corp...?" he broke off with a mock shudder. "I still have writers cramp from the last six hundred and forty seven documents I had to sign there."

Gordon grinned. "Oh, but the ladies, Al, the ladies. They're worth making the trip for, all on their own. There's something about New York women…"

Scott swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. He needed to get out of there. "Ah…have you seen Virg? I need to talk to him about something."

Jeff came around the corner from his office. "Virgil's down at the jetty seeing Elizabeth off," he told him. "I just left them down there."

"Thanks." Scott headed back for the elevator. He didn't see Gordon glance after him, his expression thoughtful.

He waited until Jeff disappeared into the kitchen. "Does he seem all right to you, Al?"

"Who, Scott? I guess so," Alan said. "Why?"

Gordon shook his head. "I don't know… Something wasn't quite…" he trailed off, unable to put his finger on what he had felt.

Alan shrugged. "Probably just jet lag. It's a long flight, and knowing Scott he probably burned the candle at both ends while he was there."

Gordon grinned. "Yeah. Lucky dog. You know, I think I'll see if I can cut in line and go next. I could use a few days of bright lights, big city."

"Yeah, well, if you're gonna go, take Virgil with you, would you? I think he needs a vacation. He's going to drive us all crazy if he doesn't calm down soon."

* * *

Scott was glad he didn't hear the seaplane's engine yet as he came out of the elevator at the bottom of the cliff, because that meant he was still in time to catch Elizabeth and say his own farewells. He wanted to thank her personally for taking such good care of his youngest brother.

As he cleared the bluff, he saw Virgil and Elizabeth standing near the far end of the jetty. Beside them, her seaplane bobbed up and down gently on the incoming tide. Scott was about to hail them when something he saw stopped him dead.

Elizabeth raised a hand and touched Virgil's face in a gesture that was unmistakably loving. Then she reached up and kissed him on the mouth.

_Oh, boy._ Scott stepped back into the shadows, watching as she moved back from his brother. Virgil's head was hanging slightly, the pose reminding Scott of the way he had looked as a child when he was being reprimanded for something and felt ashamed of himself. Scott's mind raced as he watched Elizabeth step gracefully on to the seaplane's pontoon and climb into the cockpit. Suddenly everything was clear.

_Oh, Virg,_ he thought, _we're a pair, all right. What on earth are we going to do?_

The sound of the seaplane's engine kicking in brought him back to the present. Scott ducked back quickly toward the elevator.

Any doubt he might have had about his assessment of the situation evaporated as Virgil came around the bluff a few minutes later, wiping his eyes. Scott's heart lurched at how tired and utterly miserable he looked.

"So that's why you pushed me in the pool."

Virgil jumped, taken totally unawares by Scott's unexpected appearance. He stared at his brother for a moment, considering his options. But the expression in Scott's eyes was unmistakable. He knew - and to Virgil's mild surprise the relief he felt was total.

"Does she know?"

"No, of course not," Virgil said immediately. "I wouldn't tell her anything, you know that, any more than you would."

"I know, Virg. I know."

Virgil sat down heavily on a large rock near the elevator. Scott said, "How long?"

"Almost a year. Ever since we first met."

Scott shook his head. "Damn, you're good," he said with a slight smile of admiration. "I had no idea. I mean, I knew there was _something_ up with you, but…"

"It doesn't matter anyway," Virgil said bleakly. "It's over."

"Over?" Scott was surprised. "Virg, it didn't look that way from where I was standing."

Virgil shook his head slowly, miserably. "She wants me to tell the family. I've been using every excuse in the book for the last year, trying to keep her away from them. But she isn't buying it anymore. She wants to go public, and I can't tell her why I can't let her do that."

Scott nodded his understanding. "So she's given you an ultimatum."

"Yeah. Either I tell the family or it's over."

"Aw, Virg." Scott sat down beside him, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder sympathetically.

"I don't know what I'm going to do, Scott," Virgil said in a low, unhappy voice. "I love her. I can't just let her go like this. But I can't tell dad, either…you know how he'll react."

"Yeah," Scott said. "I know the drill. 'International Rescue must remain a secret organization. No outsiders, under any circumstances.'"

There was such uncharacteristic bitterness in his voice that Virgil glanced up at him questioningly. But before he could open his mouth to ask the question, both their watches began beeping for attention. They both knew what that particular signal meant.

"That's us," Scott said. "Let's go."

When they reached the lounge, they found Jeff already at the desk waiting for them, with Gordon, Alan and Brains in attendance…as well as someone Scott hadn't expected to see. "John?" he said, confused.

"With Alan down and you in New York, we were short-handed," Jeff explained. "I decided to call John down from Thunderbird Five."

"Good move," Scott agreed. "But who's minding the store? Who else is qualified to…?"

The sound of a throat clearing for emphasis made him glance toward the monitors on the wall, and he saw the answer to his question. In place of John's picture was Tin-Tin's image. "Oh, hi, Tin-Tin," Scott said lamely.

"Hello, Scott," she said, in a tone that made it clear he'd have to figure out a way to apologize later.

"I'm sorry, Tin-Tin," Scott began, kicking himself silently for having forgotten her. He knew she was qualified…hell, she could pilot all the Thunderbirds if she had to. She had just completely slipped his mind.

"Oh, boy," Alan said quietly to Gordon. "He's gonna pay for that one."

Jeff suppressed his chuckle at his eldest son's discomfort. There was work to be done. "We don't have time for this now," he interrupted. "There isn't a moment to spare. Scott, I'm glad you're back for this one."

"Why, Dad?" Scott frowned.

"We're needed in Japan. There's been an explosion on the Akashi-Kaikyo Bridge."

* * *

Scott was airborne in minutes, the import of his father's words slowly sinking in as he watched the images fed to him via satellite of the disaster he was heading for at ten times the speed of sound. It was all hands on deck for this one - flying with Virgil, John and Gordon in Thunderbird Two, Brains filled them all in on the basics as they raced toward the danger zone. The Akashi-Kaikyo Bridge, completed in 1998 to link Kobe with Awashij Island, had been for many years the world's longest suspension bridge. Originally built to handle highway traffic only, it had undergone new construction in 2010 to add a monorail system. At 7:00 a.m. that morning, in the middle of the peak rush hour traffic period, panicked motorists had flooded the local police switchboard with reports of a massive explosion in the region of the southernmost tower, one of the two that supported the central span of the massive 12,828 foot bridge. Police helijets arrived on the scene within minutes, and were greeted by the sight that their cameras now fed live to Scott's monitors. What he saw made his blood run cold.

Half of the south tower was gone, the westernmost of the two long cables that held up the central section of the bridge sagging from what was left of its supports. A large chunk of the southern end of the central section of roadway was completely gone, crumbled into the fast-moving current below, leaving only a strip less than a lane wide to connect the bridge together. God knew how many vehicles had already fallen into the straits. But Scott was already catching his breath at an even worse sight. The first five carriages of the southbound monorail train were literally hanging, head down, over the water, still attached to the wreckage of their overhead guide system. "Jesus," he whispered. "Virgil, are you looking at this?"

"Yep." Virgil's voice was taut. As an engineer, he understood only too well what they were dealing with here. "Tin-Tin, keep a close watch on the wind speed in the straits. It can get rough for air traffic in there."

"F.A.B., Virgil," Tin-Tin answered immediately. "WWB says wind speed is at 28 knots, current in the straits is at four point five knots. And you should know that they just issued a severe tropical storm warning for the area."

More good news. "How long before the storm hits?" Scott asked.

"Four hours, maybe five if we're lucky."

"Forget the, ah, storm," Brains said. "The bridge could begin to exhibit flutter long before that, with its structure so badly, ah, damaged."

"What do you mean, flutter?"

Virgil broke in grimly. "Remember that film Brains showed us once of the Tacoma Narrows Bridge collapse back in the States?"

"Oh, God." Scott remembered it only too well. Due to a fault in design, the wind had caused the roadway of the Tacoma Narrows Bridge to twist and ripple in movements that seemed impossible for a supposedly solid structure, eventually tearing itself apart. He remembered how he had stared in disbelief, his logical brain refusing to believe the photographic evidence in front of his eyes. "Brains, tell me that's not going to happen here."

"Ah, well, Scott, you see, the increase in span length of, ah, long span bridges over the years has resulted in a remarkable, ah, decrease in their natural frequencies and the ra-atio between the fundamental torsional and vertical mode frequencies."

"How's that again…?"

"What I mean is, long span bridges can experience, ah, vortex-induced vibration, turbulence-induced buffeting and, ah, motion-induced flutter instability. Long suspension bridges are especially vulnerable to wind vibration, and the support, uh, towers are 928 feet high. When the bridge was built, the e-engineers installed damping devices to counteract deflective and ah, torsional vibration. But the southernmost tower is incapacitated thanks to the e-explosion, and the support cable on the western side is now useless."

Scott counted to ten under his breath. He hadn't slept for at least the last thirty-six hours, and it was beginning to make him irritable. "Please, Brains…just give me a yes or a no."

"All I can, uh, give you is a maybe, Scott," Brains said. "But I can tell you that the, ah, Tacoma Narrows bridge collapsed in only winds of only forty two miles per hour."

"What's the bridge designed to take, Brains? one-eighty?" Virgil asked.

"Affirmative, Virgil," Brains confirmed. "But please remember, that figure is for an, uh, intact bridge structure."

"Tin-Tin," Virgil said, "Lock on to the bridge's GPS monitoring system. Keep an eye on the readings. If that bridge starts moving I want to know about it."

"F.A.B.," Tin-Tin came back. "Scott, the locals are in a bit of a panic down there."

"No kidding," Scott said tightly, looking at the helijet feed. "What are they doing about those car fires?"

A moment, then: "Kobe fire department helis are arriving on the scene. There are fifteen vehicles on fire as far as they can tell."

"What does that mean? They can't count?"

"There's a big panic pile-up just short of the halfway mark. See that big column of smoke? They can't even tell how many vehicles are involved. People on the north side started turning around and trying to get out of the way when they saw the roadway give way - they just all crashed into each other."

Scott's mind was racing. He knew only too well what mass panic could do to make a bad situation infinitely worse. "Any estimate on casualties yet?"

"Not yet. Coast Guard estimates between forty and fifty vehicles fell when the roadway collapsed near the South Tower." Tin-Tin paused for a moment. "Scott, there are…people…on fire down there."

_Don't think about that now._ "Virg, what's your ETA?" Scott asked, although he knew most of the people in immediate danger were as good as dead already. "We've got to get Thunderbird Four into the water as soon as we possibly can."

"Eighty point five minutes," Virgil came back. "And I know…hurry it up."

Something approaching a smile flashed for a moment across Scott's face. "Tin-Tin, figure out who the local honcho is and tell him I'll be there in twenty five."

"F.A.B., Thunderbird One."

Scott signed off. He just hoped the monorail would hold until they got there.

* * *

"Tally," Joss's voice broke through her reverie. "Heads up."

She looked over at him, seeing that he was indicating the big televid screen above the bar. The legend AKASHI-KAIKYO BRIDGE DISASTER was emblazoned across the bottom of the screen as the WNN news anchor filled the audience in on the situation happening out there in Japan at that very moment. Then she saw why Joss had signaled for her attention. Underneath in smaller type had appeared the words INTERNATIONAL RESCUE ARRIVES ON SCENE.

Tally got up and went to the bar. "Brad, turn that up, would you?" she asked the bartender.

"Sure." The handsome young man in the green Molly's Bar apron increased the volume. Tally leaned forward, listening as the anchor reported that Thunderbird One had just been sighted overflying the crippled bridge. There wasn't any video, of course.

Just hearing Scott's ship mentioned sent a little jolt of electricity right through her body. She smiled secretly to herself with lips that still felt bruised and tender from the most amazing, unbelievable night she had ever experienced. She had been useless all day, unable to think about anything but how his mouth had tasted on hers as his arms held her close, the hot, musky scent of his powerful body, how he had felt around and above and inside her. God, he had been incredible. She'd had her share of boyfriends, even a long term live-in relationship, so she was certainly no shy, retiring virgin. But she had never known it could be like…_that_. She'd never lost all control before, to the point where everything blurred together and the world went away and she didn't know where she ended and he began. She wasn't even sure of exactly what she had said and done during parts of it…but she could definitely remember enough for the memory to bring a solid flush to her cheeks.

And she suddenly realized why all those people she had previously shaken her head at, the ones who had abandoned all, thrown away lives and careers and security for the sake of love, had done what they did. If they had found something even remotely like what she had experienced last night with Scott, then she understood perfectly. In their place, she would have done the same thing.

Her happy golden glow was only slightly marred by the fact that she had woken up alone. There was no trace of Scott in the apartment, and he hadn't left a note. Still, she rationalized, he was in the emergency rescue business, and a call could have come in for him, leaving him no choice but to leave right away. He probably hadn't wanted to wake her. And as for not leaving a note, her reporter's mind understood that perfectly. This organization was famous for their thoroughness in leaving no trail that could lead to them being found and identified, and leaving your handwriting and possibly fingerprints all over a piece of paper in the apartment of a woman you barely knew would hardly go along with that philosophy.

As she watched the news report, alert for any more information about International Rescue's involvement in the bridge disaster, she unhooked her cell phone from her belt and dialed her answering machine. Her heartbeat quickened as she heard the machine report that it had three messages for her…then sank again slightly when none of them were from him.

She glanced at her watch. Six-forty-five. It had only been one day, after all. Less than that, really, considering that they hadn't arrived at her apartment until three that morning.

_He'll call_, she thought. _I know he will_.

* * *

The morning sun flashed blindingly off Thunderbird One's silver fuselage as she roared over the top of the Akashi-Kaikyo Bridge, passing close enough for the people below to feel the heat of her jets. Stranded commuters shrieked and pointed as the rocket plane wheeled gracefully in the air and looped over, streaking back past underneath the roadway between the bridge's powerful supports. "Thunderbird Two from Thunderbird One. I've arrived at the bridge."

"Roger that, Thunderbird One. What's the situation?"

Thunderbird One swooped back up above the roadway level for another fly-by. Scott stared down at the carnage, which looked much worse up close and in person than it had on the vid feed. Fires were everywhere, columns of black smoke boiling up into the sky, blown into choking clouds by the strong winds swirling around the structure. "It's bad, Virg. Half the cars in the middle are on fire. Visibility is pretty bad with these winds blowing all the smoke about. And there are hundreds of people all over the place down there…why isn't anyone getting them off the bridge, dammit?"

He banked the ship for a better view, swinging as close to the hanging monorail cars as he dared. He could see the terrified people inside them, their hands and faces pressed to the glass, watching him as the ship rocketed by. "The monorail's in bad shape. The overhead support looks like confetti. We'd better start working on getting those people down out of there. It looks like it could give way at any moment."

"We're still forty five minutes out, Scott. We've got a good tailwind so we might be able to cut that down a little, but…"

"I know, Virg… Do your best." Scott swept back over the bridge, frowning down at the chaos. "Tin-Tin, what's going on down there?"

Tin-Tin's voice sounded exasperated. "The police, the coast guard and the fire department are all arguing over who should be in charge. I'm getting the distinct impression that none of them want to be the first to land on the bridge, either. They're trying to figure out a way to verify that it's safe."

"Give me a break." Scott shook his head, staring at the knot of helijets buzzing over the bridge. "What's the word from the GPS monitor?"

"No appreciable movement of the bridge structure," Tin-Tin said.

Scott was thinking furiously. "Brains?"

"During, ah, construction, the bridge survived a-an earthquake of magnitude 8.5 on the Richter scale occurring at a distance of less than one hundred miles. There was no, ah, appreciable structural damage, Scott."

Scott smiled. Brains had read his mind, and in his own way was giving him the go-ahead. "Tin-Tin, inform those bozos in the helijets that they don't need to worry any more about who's in command, because International Rescue is taking over. And while you're about it, tell 'em I'm about to land on the bridge."

"Scott," Virgil said immediately, worry edging his voice. "Are you sure it's safe?"

"Well, I wouldn't recommend it for something the size of your hunk of junk, Virg…but my bird's a lot smaller and lighter, and somebody's gotta get down there _now_ and start those people moving toward the exits in a nice, orderly fashion. By the looks of it, I'm the only one who seems to have his act together right now."

He could almost feel his brother consider telling him not to do it, then bite back his response, knowing full well it would do no good. "Okay," Virgil said at last. "But watch yourself. That bridge starts moving…"

"Virg, that bridge so much as twitches and I'm out of there like a cat with a burned tail." Scott was already searching for a landing spot. It wasn't going to be easy.

He extended the wings and flew low and slow across the center section of the roadway. Wouldn't be a good idea to toast any more cars… Finally he spotted an area about seventy feet in from the undamaged north tower that looked big enough to set her down. He checked the wind and swung her around, coming in nice and steady, firing the landing jet early to give people plenty of warning that he was about to burn them to a crisp if they didn't get out of his way. Fifty feet up he hit the loudspeaker switch. "This is International Rescue. Please stand clear."

He switched frequencies. "Johnny, what's that in Japanese?"

He listened to the rapid fire of John's fluent Japanese. He hit the loudspeaker switch, opened his mouth to repeat what John had said…and let the switch go again. "Uh, Johnny…"

He heard John's chuckle. "Patch me through, Scott."

Scott grinned. It was a family joke that he truly sucked at languages, try as he might. He flipped the connector. "Go ahead."

John's voice came booming out of the loudspeakers, repeating Scott's instructions in fluent Japanese. Scott stared down at the bridge. A couple more repetitions, and it began to have the desired effect. People began to back away from the silver Thunderbird as she flared for landing, lowering to the tarmac on a roaring column of fire. Her struts touched the roadway and Scott was out of his seat, lowering the ladder. He jammed headphones in place and grabbed the portable remote…no time to unload Mobile Control, he would have to wing this one with the help of Tin-Tin in Thunderbird Five.

Once on the ground underneath the ship, he gazed at the chaos around him. The stench was so awful it made his eyes water - scorched rubber and plastic overlaid with another smell he knew only too well, burned flesh. He thought about breaking out a gas mask, but one look at the gathering crowd of terrified people made him change his mind. They were staring at him as if he was Moses come to save them from the Egyptian army, and they didn't have gas masks to escape the choking clouds of smoke.

"Scott, windspeed is up to thirty-two knots," Tin-Tin's voice sounded in his ear above the screaming and crying and the buffeting of the wind. Scott glanced up at the ruined south tower. He could feel the bridge vibrating under his feet, but so far that was the least of his worries. He had to get these people off the bridge.

He flipped on the loudspeaker with the remote. "This is International Rescue. I'm here to help you. If you are able to walk, please proceed in a calm and orderly fashion toward the north end of the bridge. If you are injured and you cannot walk, please stay where you are, and we will help you. It is very important that you stay calm and follow my instructions."

He looked around him as John's voice repeated the instructions in Japanese. Slowly the words penetrated the fear and confusion on the sea of frightened faces, and they began to move in the direction he indicated. One woman who passed grabbed hold of him, weeping uncontrollably. Scott gently disentangled her, speaking reassuringly to her although he didn't know if she could understand him. One of the men stepped forward to take her, and supported her as they moved toward the north end of the bridge.

Satisfied that those who were able to had started moving, Scott gave a last glance back up at the hanging monorail cars, swaying ever so slightly in the wind. Saying a silent prayer that the superstructure would hold, he headed back to Thunderbird One for the first aid supplies and his hoverjet.

* * *

For once, her landing wasn't even close to perfect, but Elizabeth barely noticed the rougher than usual jolt as the seaplane's skids made contact with the water, kicking up a shower of salt spray. She was surprised that she could land at all, considering the fact that her eyes were aching, her vision blurry from crying almost all the way home from Tracy Island.

The dam had burst almost as soon as she had taken off. It had hurt like living hell to leave Virgil standing there on that jetty. She had been determined not to let him see her cry, but as she had circled the seaplane into the wind for her course home she had seen him down there, looking lost and very alone, watching her leave as if she was the only other person on earth and she was abandoning him. That had been enough to start the tears flowing, and she had been startled at the near-hysteria that had bubbled up from inside her the minute a crack opened up in the concrete of her surface resolve. If she'd ever had any doubt that she was in love with him, her reaction then would have swept it away.

Elizabeth came from a strong, loving family, like Virgil did, although she was an only child. She had been raised to feel secure within herself, told that she could accomplish anything she wanted if she tried hard enough. She'd built her first practice from the ground up and then bought this one from a retiring doctor, thrilled to be able to combine the two things she loved, flying and medicine. She'd stood on her own two feet all her life and only taken on relationships with equals, and she wasn't accustomed to needing anyone, especially not a man. But she needed Virgil, needed him right down inside the core of her, and she knew that if he didn't come after her, if he didn't make this right, she wouldn't get over him easily or quickly.

She had to stand her ground, or there was no hope for their future. But she was taking a very big risk here and she knew it – betting all the marbles that he loved her enough to come clean about whatever this was that he felt he couldn't tell her.

She shook her head to clear it as she pulled the seaplane up beside the jetty. She couldn't think about this now. Her clinic was waiting, the small blue and white building comforting in its solid familiarity, and she had to get in there and get organized. She needed to get a report from her sub about what had happened with her patients in her absence, then sit down and look over her schedule. She needed to…

She needed Virgil. Elizabeth took a deep, shuddering breath, lowering her head to her arms for one more moment. Then she got a hold of herself and turned off the engine.

As she walked into the clinic, her receptionist looked up with a welcoming smile. "Hi, Dr. Grant. Welcome back."

"Thanks, Sarah. What's going on?"

"Dr. Wilson went to Moe's to get a sandwich," Sarah said. "Mrs. Johnson's here for her back exam, Mr. Cunningham's coming in at two with his upper GI results…oh, and some nutter bombed the Akashi-Kaikyo Bridge."

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows, turning at Sarah's indication to look at the waiting room's television screen. The WNN news anchor was talking over a sweeping fly-by vid of the chaos at the bridge. "International Rescue's there," Sarah said. "Thunderbird Two just arrived. There are cars in the water and the bridge is on fire and everything. It's very exciting."

Elizabeth smiled despite herself, shaking her head at Sarah's youth. It was all just a virtual vidgame to her. She grabbed the pile of charts, heading for her office, leaving the sound of the anchor's voice behind. She was just grateful they were too far away to be pulled in to help with casualties. She badly needed some time to pull herself together before Dr. Wilson returned from his lunch.

* * *

"Oh, boy," Gordon said, staring out of Thunderbird Two's windshield at the scene they were rapidly approaching. "What a mess."

"Virgil," Brains said, intent on the monitor screens, "see if you can, uh, fly us close to the southern tower. I want to get a-a good look at the, uh, stabilization system."

"F.A.B.," Virgil said, lowering Thunderbird Two's blunt nose toward the bridge. "Thunderbird Two to Scott. How's it going down there?"

"Pretty good, Virg," Scott's voice came back immediately, a little raw around the edges from the effect the smoke was having on his vocal chords. "Got a couple of triage areas going here and we're flying the wounded out in relays. Get Gordon in the water and then we'll talk about the monorail."

Virgil glanced around at Gordon. He nodded, heading toward the rear cockpit door.

"Okay, Scott," Virgil said into the comlink. "Gordon's on his way. We'll drop the pod and be right with you."

"F.A.B." Uniform smudged with dirt, smoke and blood, Scott wiped his burning eyes, staring up at the welcome sight of the great green Thunderbird as she banked to wheel past what was left of the bridge's south tower. Predictably, as soon as he had led the way by landing on the bridge, the local police, fire and coast guard helijets – none wanting to lose face with either International Rescue or their counterparts - had scrambled to follow suit. With the help of the Kobe paramedics, Scott had established triage, bringing in the wounded to a central area and loading them on to the helijets for transport in order of priority. As they worked, he kept making visual checks of the monorail, knowing that the people trapped on board could probably see what was going on and were wondering when – or if – someone would come to help them.

It was getting tougher and tougher to breathe as the wind rose, whipping clouds of acrid smoke across the roadway. The windspeed was up to thirty five knots, and the monorail cars were beginning to swing alarmingly. But he couldn't worry about that now. He had to focus on the next step in front of him, which was coming up with a plan to get that train down.

He crossed to the edge of the bridge, watching as Thunderbird Two dropped her wing and swooped down in a wide diving turn, Virgil heading the transport plane into the wind so that he could use his flaps to dump speed and altitude in a hurry. His fist tensed at his side as she flared, tail swinging down, knowing the precise moment that Virgil would hit the electromagnetic lock release. There was that split second when her midsection seemed to tremble, then the pod was in free fall, sailing through the air to smack down hard into the rough water of the Akashi Straits. Freed of her heavy burden, Thunderbird Two's engines boomed like thunder as she roared low over the bridge above him. Scott turned and ran to his hoverjet, firing it up and zooming between the cars to rendezvous with his brother as close as possible to the stricken monorail.

There wasn't much room to maneuver, the bridge's six-lane highway reduced to less than one lane at this point. The monorail had been passing the south tower when the bomb went off, and it was a miracle that it hadn't been completely blown away from the bridge. As it was, the first five cars were hanging drunkenly down toward the water, and he couldn't figure out how the tangled mess of metal that used to be its support structure was still holding in place. He was just glad it was.

Thunderbird Two circled the tower, slowing in midair. "Okay, Brains," Scott said. "What've you got?"

"Virgil and I have discussed the-the relative, ah, weight of the monorail, and I'm afraid Thunderbird Two's grabs will be, uh, unequal to the task. The only way is to remove the cars one at a-a time."

Scott nodded. "Okay, so we cut the train up. John and I'll use the oxyhydnite cutters. Virg, send the ladder down and I'll be right with you."

"The only problem we have, Scott, is where to put the, uh, cars once we have separated them."

_Ah._ Scott stared down the bridge at the closely packed mass of vehicles, some intact, some burned out hulks. There was nowhere to lower the monorail cars. He kneaded his temple with his fingers, trying to force a solution out of his tired brain. "Has Gordon checked in yet?" he asked.

"Yeah, Scott. He says the current's a bitch and visibility is almost zero, but he's checking for survivors." Virgil paused. "He said don't get your hopes up."

Scott's mouth tightened. He had known that was coming. Upwards of fifty vehicles had drawn the short straw, falling three hundred feet to hit a water surface that from that height would have felt a lot like solid concrete. And even if they'd survived that, the bottom of the Akashi Straits was another three hundred and sixty plus feet, straight down. It would be a miracle if Gordon found anyone still alive down there.

"Just tell him to do his best," he said at last, staring out at the choppy water.

"Will do. Oh, and he said you might want to get on the horn to the Vessel Traffic Advisory Center and tell them to clear the area. Don't want one of those container ships passing underneath if more of this bridge caves in."

_Container ships._Scott grinned suddenly.That was_ it_! "Virg, tell Gordo he just earned himself a fat bonus."

"Ah…huh?" Virgil was lost.

But Scott was already on with Tin-Tin in Thunderbird Five. "Tin-Tin, patch me through to the Akashi Straits Vehicle Traffic Advisory Center."

"Scott?" Virgil said. "What are we going to do?"

"We, Virg, are going to hijack us a couple of container ships."

The plan was simple, Scott explained as Virgil sent the ladder down and hoisted him up into the bowels of Thunderbird Two. He and John would be lowered in harnesses to the monorail, where they would guide the magnetic grabs to the first car to hold it in place. Then they would use the oxyhydnite torches to cut the lead car apart from the rest of the train, and then Thunderbird Two would fly it to one of the several nearby container ships whose captains had willingly offered their services to help International Rescue. Then they would return for the next car. It would be slow going, but under the circumstances, it was the best solution anyone could come up with.

Scott and John donned their protective gear and harnesses quickly, strapping on the packs that contained the oxyhydnite cutting equipment. Capable of doing the job three times faster than a laser, the gas – another invention of Brains' – had given them a few bad moments during its original outing, but had turned out to be a very valuable part of their arsenal. To this day Jeff remained suspicious of the almost euphoric good moods both Scott and Virgil had been in when they had awakened from the temporary coma the gas' first testing had put them into, and the term "you been sniffing oxyhydnite?" had quietly made its way into the International Rescue lexicon as a euphemism for a drug induced high. Of course, now that Brains had figured out the solution of heating the tanks the gas was stored in, that part of the process was no longer an issue. Although the possibility of modifying the gas' usage for recreational purposes did still occasionally come up in conversation after a few rounds of beer.

John was the first away through the open hatch, Scott operating the winch manually and watching carefully to see that his younger brother made it to his destination safely. John touched down gently on the back of the first monorail car, testing his footing and glancing upward at the twisted metal of the support structure.

"How is it, John?" Scott asked.

"Looks good, Scott. The car can take my weight okay. Come on down."

Scott hooked his harness to the winch and spoke into his headphones. "Lower away, Virgil."

"F.A.B."

The wind felt even stronger here, a hundred feet up from the roadway. Scott had a panoramic view of the bridge as he descended through the air toward the monorail car. He noticed with satisfaction that the field triage and transport system he had set in place was still operating smoothly, helijets waiting in line like the approach lane at an airport, each one landing, loading its wounded passengers and sweeping forward to make room for the next. He glanced down at the heaving water, wondering how Gordon was doing.

Then the whole world went white.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**

_FIFTEEN_

**

Scott howled in pain, throwing his arm up to protect his eyes from the searing, retina-blinding flash. The deep rumble of the explosion hit seconds later, Thunderbird Two rocking above him from the shockwaves. It took him a moment to realize over the ringing in his ears that John was shouting at him. "Scott, the north tower!"

Scott forced his streaming eyes back open. Through the stark floating spots that marred his vision, he saw an incredible sight…twenty three thousand tons of concrete and metal beginning to tremble like a tree branch in a strong wind. _No, no, no, no…_ But the vibrations increased inexorably, and the huge tower faltered, slipping before his eyes - collapsing in on itself in almost graceful slow motion. The roar of falling masonry echoed across the bridge as the tower disintegrated, reduced to a torrent of crushed concrete and twisted metal with nowhere to go but down.

_Down…_ "Gordon, get out of there!" Scott shouted into his com. "The north tower's coming straight at you!"

No answer. "Tin-Tin…"

"Thunderbird Four from Thunderbird Five, do you read me, over. Thunderbird Four from Thunderbird Five…"

"Christ, Scott, it got two of the helis…" Virgil's voice was harsh with helplessness.

Scott didn't want to look. The bridge's massive support cables had crashed down toward the roadway when the tower fell, catching two of the rescue helijets in their crushing embrace and smashing them to very small pieces on the tarmac below. He could see the wreckage through the swirling clouds of smoke that still spiraled up from dozens of burning out cars. "Is there anybody…"

"No."

Shit, Scott thought, this whole operation was going south in a hurry. He could feel it sliding sideways out from underneath him, and they weren't anywhere near done yet. Wishing he'd gotten more sleep in the last forty-eight hours, he shook off the sick feeling of impending doom with a concentrated effort. He had to keep the rest of the team operating here. "Johnny, you okay?" he asked, twisting in his harness.

John stared at him, his dirt-covered face and streaming eyes mirroring Scott's own. "Yeah…what the hell just…?"

"Must have been another bomb," Scott said tightly. "Tin-Tin, did you raise Gordon?"

"Yes, Scott, he's out of the way. He says there's so much debris in the water now that his visibility has dropped to zero."

_It doesn't matter. There's nobody alive down there._ "Tell him to stand by," Scott said out loud. "We're going to need him to cover us when Virgil starts transporting monorail cars to the container ships.

"F.A.B."

Scott wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. "Okay, let's get on with this."

And then the whole bridge rocked.

"Whoa!" John grabbed at the monorail car for support. "What the hell?"

"Scott!" It was Virgil. "The bridge is moving! The GPS just lit up like a Christmas tree."

_Oh, Jesus, Thunderbird One…_ Scott swiveled in his harness, unable to believe that he had forgotten about his ship until that moment. She was still sitting where he had left her…her previously safe position now perilously close to the jagged gap in the roadway where the north tower used to be. And then a worse thought struck him. "God, Virg, I didn't leave her on standby…"

"Oh, shit." Virgil was stunned. Scott didn't make mistakes like that. What the hell was going on? "Hold on, I'll get Tin-Tin to trigger by remote."

"We can't, Virg. Not since Dad insisted on installing the extra security measures," Scott said grimly.

"Go, Scott." Bracing his feet against the monorail car underneath him, John unclipped his harness from the winch cable and fastened it to the monorail structure. "Get her off the deck. You may not have much time."

"Johnny…" Scott hesitated in agony, knowing he had to go, but unwilling to leave his brother in this kind of danger, his only support a monorail that could collapse at any moment.

"Go!" John urged. "If anything happens I'll jump clear and use my chute, and Gordo can pick me up." He switched focus to Virgil, knowing he would back him up. "Virg, I'm clear. Get Scott back to his bird before we lose her."

Virgil didn't hesitate. "Hang on, Scott."

Scott braced himself as the huge transport plane swung her tail clear of the bridge, maneuvering into a position where she could safely fire her jets without frying everything underneath her. And then she was off, swooping across the bridge toward the north tower. Scott knew Virgil was doing his best to keep the ride smooth, but it was a still a hair-raising journey. He concentrated on trying not to lose the contents of his stomach as he swung back and forth above the road surface, the harness behaving like a garden swing on acid in the stiff winds. Choking from the black smoke still billowing up from the automobile graveyard below him, he only caught brief clear glimpses of the roadway before Thunderbird One's sleek silver shape loomed ahead.

Virgil got him as close as he could, hovering mere feet away. "Okay, Scott, lowering now."

"F.A.B.," Scott responded, feeling the slight jerk as the winch began to lower him toward the tarmac. He willed it to move faster, cursing himself for his stupidity in not leaving Thunderbird One in standby mode. Now he'd have to warm up the engines before he could even fire the VTOL jet.

And then he saw something he really, really wished he hadn't. The roadway was cracking open, the steadily widening fissure heading straight for Thunderbird One.

Scott had never moved so fast in his life. Virgil's warning shout ringing in his ears, he hit the harness release and jumped the last ten feet, landing with a jarring impact that hurt like hell. Shoving the pain aside, he raced for the ladder and scrambled up it, hitting the hatch release and praying desperately for enough time to get the engines fired before the roadway crumbled underneath him.

It seemed to take forever, precious seconds ticking away in time with the heartbeat thundering in his ears as he vaulted into the pilot's seat. Instrument panels sprang to life under his hands and the familiar hum began, the powerful thrusters vibrating through the ship's hull as they began to warm up. Scott stared at the gauges, willing the numbers to come up faster. Maybe, just _maybe…_

He made the mistake of glancing out of the open viewport to his right. The crack in the roadway was now five feet wide and it was almost upon him.

It was too late. The ship was going down and he was going with her.

"Scott, get her out of there!" Virgil shouted frantically.

"I can't, Virg, she's not…she's not…" Fear tasted like metal in his mouth as he felt his ship stumble, the tarmac gaping wide beneath her struts. _Virgil, help me…_

And then everything happened at once. Thunderbird One tipped drunkenly to the left, nose headed down toward oblivion, the bridge sliding by past his frozen eyes…a sudden roar of smoke and flame from above him obliterated his senses…and just like that the roadway was gone from underneath him. Sheer panic swept through him as Thunderbird One began to freefall toward certain death.

The green ignition ready light spattered at his eyes.

Relief slammed through him. She hadn't gone too far beyond the horizontal, maybe he wasn't dead yet… He dimly felt a solid thunking sound on the outside of the ship's hull, but didn't have time to worry about it as he punched the VTOL ignition. Power roared underneath him, throwing the ship upward, and then Virgil was suddenly yelling in his ears again… "Cut the jet, Scott! _Cut the jet!_"

It hit Scott like a kick in the side. That thunking sound had been Thunderbird Two's grabs catching him, which meant Virgil was right above him. Thunderbird One was about to tear the grabs to pieces and crack open his brother's ship. He was going to kill them both.

_Shut it off, shut it off…_ His hand smacked down on the ignition cutoff, sweat pouring into his eyes as he felt the thrust die beneath him. Then Thunderbird One jerked forwards through the gaping hole as her great green sister hauled her bodily clear of the bridge, swooping away through the air like an enormous hawk gripping its prey in its claws.

But they were still headed straight at the water. Scott stared at the roiling gray green waves rushing at him. "Uh, Virg…"

"Can't hold you, Scott…" Virgil's voice was back in his ears again, tense with effort. Scott could hear alarms clamoring for attention in Thunderbird Two's cockpit. "Too much weight…"

_Jesus, the payload limit…_ Thunderbird One was a one hundred forty ton dead weight dragging his brother straight toward a watery grave. "Drop me, Virg…drop me now!"

"Scott…"

"I've got power, I'll make it. Do it!"

"F.A.B.," Virgil ground out. "Releasing grabs…now!"

There was a sudden lurch, and the silver rocket plane tumbled back into instant free fall. Scott hit the VTOL jet ignition.

Nothing.

Oh, shit. He switched gears and fired the main boosters. Still nothing. _What the hell…_ Eighty feet…seventy-five…sixty… _Come on, baby, come on, I don't wanna go swimming again... _The water was coming up terrifyingly fast, his mind counting off the seconds as the ship fell like a stone…_Oh well, at least I'm wearing the seat harness this time…_

And then the seat kicked him hard in the back, the booster rockets belching sudden flame. Muttering a heartfelt prayer of thanks as raw power surged back under his hands, Scott hauled back on the lift controls, Thunderbird One's tail section brushing close enough to the crests below to kick up spray as her nose finally swung back up. Scott kicked her into afterburner and the waves boiled as she leaped forward, thundering like a red-tipped arrow toward open sky.

He let her charge, wiping the sweat from his eyes as she took him straight toward the sun at five thousand miles per hour. At ten thousand feet he brought her up and over in a vertical loop, riding the moment of freefall as she flipped over on to her back. As she came back down he searched the sky for Thunderbird Two, finally spotting her wheeling away from the bridge. He rolled Thunderbird One smoothly out of the loop, watching as Virgil gave his bird full throttle in a high spiraling turn, reaching for altitude. As the great green transport reached the top of her arc her wing dropped slightly and she banked to once again face the ruined structure.

Virgil had been looking for him, too. "Scott, are you all right?"

"I should be asking you that," Scott said, shifting shoulders soaked with sweat under his uniform, bringing Thunderbird One around to follow the trajectory of her larger sister. "That was too close."

"You gave me a bad moment there," Virgil came back. "I thought you were going to turn Thunderbird One into my newest pod vehicle."

"I'm sorry, Virg…I didn't know you were going to do that…"

"Well, you said help you," Virgil pointed out.

_Not out loud,_ Scott thought to himself, with a weak smile. _Not out loud._

* * *

It took only a few minutes to get Thunderbird Two back in position, hovering over the monorail. Atop the lead car, John waited patiently as the harness cable slowly lowered toward him. "Okay, Virg, I've got it," he said, snapping the hook back into place.

Then he turned and waved to Scott, knowing that his elder brother would be watching him from the nearby Thunderbird One like a wound up, frustrated hawk. "Take it easy, Scotty. You're gonna break something."

He heard Virgil's quickly stifled chuckle.

Time to go to work. "Virg, you can lower the grabs now."

Staring up at the green bulk hovering above him, John watched as the hatch doors slid open under her nose and the grabs slowly began to lower toward him. He couldn't help a quick glance down the bridge as he waited, feeling a cold line of sweat across his shoulders as he thought of what could happen if the bridge moved again. The people in those monorail cars didn't have parachutes.

He shook it off, turning back to guide the grabs into place. "Right one degree…just a fraction more…that's it…that's it…okay, you're in the groove…straight down, Virg, straight down…"

The grabs slid down over the sides of the monorail car. "Okay, Virg, lock 'em up."

The grabs drew in, gripping the sides of the car securely. "How's that look, Johnny?" Virg asked.

John tested the grab arm nearest him, glancing down at the rearward one with a critical eye. "Looks good. Nice and tight."

"Ah, pressure reading is, ah, o-optimum," Brain's voice concurred.

"Okay, guys, I'm gonna start cutting now," John said. "Virg, don't forget to warn me if the bridge looks like it wants to go dancing again."

"You'll be the first to know," Virgil promised him.

While Scott and Virgil had been busy rescuing Thunderbird One, John had communicated with the terrified passengers of the lead monorail car, telling them what he was going to do. He could feel them watching him now as he swung clear of the car and thunked back down toward the rear, lifting the oxyhydnite cutter that was strapped to his belt. He pulled on the mask, checked the regulator and fired up the cutter.

* * *

Virgil couldn't stop thinking about Elizabeth.

This was the part of any rescue that was the hardest…the part where everyone in the entire team was depending on him to hold Thunderbird Two's immense bulk absolutely steady, no matter what the circumstances or weather conditions or how long he'd been in the pilot's seat that day. And he wasn't at his best today by a long shot, considering that he hadn't slept through a single night while Elizabeth had been in the house.

He didn't know what to do. The whole time she had been there on the Island, he had been a half-step away from panic, afraid that she was going to tell someone the truth and that all hell would break loose. He couldn't rest, he could barely eat, and now that she was gone, instead of the relief he thought he would feel, he was instead terrified that he was never going to see her again. The pressure to come up with a solution was relentless, making his head pound from the effort, but although his mind kept rabbiting back and forth over the same ground, the harder he tried to figure it out the more he kept coming up empty.

But he had a job to do. And despite the voice inside him that threatened to start screaming and never stop, he did what he always did – what he had been trained to do. He sat there in the pilot's seat, good old dependable Virgil, handling this most difficult of jobs so smoothly that he made it look like nothing. He nodded and smiled and acknowledged orders like nothing was wrong, when all the time he really wanted to just pick up a fire ax and start smashing the instruments in front of him, one by one.

_You're just strung out,_ he told himself. _You'll be okay. Just get to the end of this job and then go talk to Scott. He'll help you figure out what to do._

Scott was on the com with base, talking to his father about the second explosion. Virgil listened in, shifting in his seat. His shoulders ached. He flexed them for the hundredth time, trying to ease the tension, and glanced over at Brains who was monitoring the stresses on the grabs that were holding the third monorail car steady underneath them. So far, so good – fortunately, it seemed Virgil hadn't done any physical damage when he'd used them in that desperate attempt to save Thunderbird One from falling through the bridge. The bright colors of the Akashi Straits afternoon bled a little as he saw the near fatal accident happen again in his mind, relived the moment of sheer panic when he'd seen the silver ship falter and begin to slide nose first off the roadway. Shit, that had been way too close.

It was silly, he knew…but he was gripped by the sudden need to look out of the cockpit shields at his brother's ship, wanting the solid reassurance that it hadn't happened…that she was still there, hovering nearby. His mind was eased by seeing her right where she should be, fifty yards away, slightly below him and to his left. Scott wasn't happy, of course…thanks to the destruction of the north tower, he was once again relegated to running the operation from a distance instead of being where he wanted to be, feet braced on that monorail car, hands gripping that oxyhydnite torch. Even from this distance Virgil could almost feel his brother's frustration, radiating up like heat haze from the hull of the rocket plane.

The first four monorail cars had been rescued without incident - John cutting through the couplings between the cars while Virgil held each one in the grip of the grabs. As soon as each car was liberated from the train, Virgil waited for John to clip himself on to the next car back and then carefully swung the freed car clear of the bridge. A quick swoop down to the deck of the nearest container ship, past the watchful eye of Gordon, who sat on the surface in Thunderbird Four in case of any premature dropping. Release the car, retract the grabs, fly back into position and start all over again.

"Uh…how's it going, ah, John?" Brains asked over the comlink.

"Almost there. Another minute, give or take."

"F.A.B.," Brains responded.

"How are the grabs holding up, Brains?" Scott's voice came crackling over.

"They seem to be, ah, fine, Scott," Brains said, glancing over the instruments. "I'll let you know i-i-if I think there's anything to be, uh, worried about."

"Thanks," Scott said. Virgil's mouth quirked a little in sympathy. He knew how helpless Scott felt right now, and his action oriented elder brother was never at his best when he felt helpless.

At least he hadn't started snapping yet. Then again, they were only on monorail car number five, and they had another seven to go.

* * *

By the time they had started on car number nine, Virgil's shoulders were screaming. His overstressed and under-rested muscles were cramping and locking up on him, and he had to shift his grip constantly to compensate. The wind, thank God, hadn't climbed any more, and Tin-Tin, who was keeping a very close eye on the bridge's GPS system, hadn't reported any more movement. But after all the pumping adrenaline earlier, Virgil had slid deep into the trough of enervation on the other side. He was so tired he was beginning to wonder if he'd manage to make it to the end of this one without needing to take a break.

So, he thought defensively, what if he had to? It wouldn't be so bad, considering that it would be the first time ever. But he'd never hear the end of it from his brothers…especially the younger ones. He was already beginning to regret all the "old man" jokes he'd helped level at Scott over the past few years.

"Hey, Virg." There was Scott, right on cue. "You know, I've been thinking…we really should think about adding a seaplane to our pod vehicles. It would come in pretty useful for ocean rescues."

Seaplanes. Virgil's heart lurched as his mind went right back to Elizabeth and her departure that morning. He suddenly realized that he didn't even know if she'd arrived home safely. They usually found some way to communicate so he wouldn't worry…being a pilot, he knew only too well all the things that could go wrong on a long flight. This time, though, she wouldn't be calling him.

Oh, God, what if he lost her? What if…

"Virg!" Scott's voice rang in his ears. "_Watch your tail!_"

Proximity alarms screamed at his ears._ God, he'd almost drifted right into the bridge…_ Overtired and overstressed, Virgil overcompensated, yanking on the control yoke in exactly the wrong direction. A shudder ran through her hull as Thunderbird Two's tail section bumped hard into the bridge's south tower. Brains grabbed on to the console for support, staring at Virgil in disbelief. Scrambling now, totally disoriented, Virgil tried to straighten her out by swinging back the other way…and remembered too late that he had the grabs fastened securely around monorail car number nine.

John's sudden shout made his blood run cold. _Oh, Jesus, what have I done…_ "John!" he said urgently, staring at the monitor screen. He couldn't see his brother at all. "John, are you all right?"

"Virgil, what in God's name is going on over there?" Scott demanded, worry making his voice harsh enough to strip off skin.

Virgil floundered, unable to think of a single coherent thing to say. "I'm…I'm…John, he's not…"

"Stand by, I'll take a look." Thunderbird One swung closer to give Scott a better view of the monorail. "He's down between the cars…you knocked him on his ass. John, can you hear me? Johnny!"

No answer. "I-It's okay, Virgil," Brains said, although he was still watching Virgil as though he thought he might really be somebody else disguised as the second Tracy son. "I'll go down and see if I can, uh, help him."

Virgil flashed him a grateful look. "Thanks, Brains. I'm sorry, I…"

"It's quite all right," Brains said, already on his feet and heading toward the rear elevator. "It isn't often I-I get to see a little, uh, action."

Virgil managed a smile. As Brains disappeared behind him down into the hold, he glanced back over at the hovering Thunderbird One. He wasn't looking forward to _this_ mission debriefing session.

* * *

John came back to consciousness slowly, disoriented. He stared up at the big green thing hovering high over him, his mind not making the connection at first. There was a sputtering, crackling sound coming from somewhere, but he couldn't quite figure out what it was. Then Brain's face swung into view inches away, and John snapped back to full alertness in a hurry. "Jesus!"

"Ah…I'm, uh, sorry, John," Brains said. "I didn't mean to, uh, to, uh startle you…"

John relaxed slowly. He was lying on his back between the last two monorail cars, and judging from the way his head felt, he'd hit it on something when he fell. "Brains, what happened up there?

The crackling, hissing sound had been the oxyhydnite cutter, he realized, which he hadn't been able to shut off. Brains was reaching for it, hauling it up on its tether and turning off the nozzle. "I-I don't know, John, one minute we were fine, a-and then Virgil hit the bridge."

"Virgil hit the bridge?" John stared at him in disbelief. "_Our_ Virgil?"

Brains nodded, trying to get a look at his head through the mask. John brushed him aside impatiently. "I'm fine," he said. "Help me up."

Brains braced himself against the rear monorail car and offered his hand. John took it and tried to pull himself upright…without success. "I'm stuck," he said, voice sharp-edged with frustration.

Brains maneuvered around him carefully and checked. "It seems that your pack i-is stuck on the, ah, coupling," he said finally. "I'll have to, uh, cut you loose."

He raised the cutter. "Whoa!" John said, raising his hands in protest. "What about the oxyhydnite tanks? That thing'll turn me into a crispy critter."

Brains smiled. "I'll be careful."

John stared at him. He subsided slowly, realizing that if Brains didn't know what his own inventions could deal with, then nobody did. "Okay," he said at last, letting out his breath in a noisy exhale. "Go for it."

He looked up at the sky through Thunderbird Two's empty frame, trying not to flinch as he heard the cutter hiss to life.

* * *

They were finally ready to airlift the last car. Virgil didn't remember the last time he had been this exhausted, his muscles cramping in agony. It was going to take a while in the whirlpool bath and at least a couple of deep tissue massages to work the kinks out. His mouth tasted like grit and his eyes burned with the effort of keeping his eyes open and glued to the monitor screen so he wouldn't cause another inadvertent disaster. He found himself thinking longingly about the bunks in Thunderbird Two's living quarters – he needed to curl up and sleep in the very worst way.

"Okay, Virg," John's voice came over the comlink. "Lift number two harness."

Virg threw the switch and watched as Brains slowly started to come back up toward the hatch. At least this part he could do almost automatically, he knew from long practice exactly how many seconds it took for the winch to hoist the harness wearer back into the hold. He began to check the grab stresses in preparation for the last flight to one of the waiting container ships.

"O-okay, uh, Virgil, I'm aboard," Brains said.

"F.A.B., Brains," Virgil acknowledged. "Ready, John?"

"F.A.B."

Virgil flipped the switch on the primary winch. He glanced at the monitor, watched for a moment as John began to rise slowly toward the ship. Then he went back to checking the stress levels. Satisfied the grabs were holding, he took a moment, rubbing his eyes and thinking about aspirin.

He looked over at Thunderbird One again, guilt stirring in his stomach. Scott hadn't said anything at all about the accident he had caused, and he knew from experience that was anything but a good sign. With Scott, you might be in trouble when he was yelling at you, but you were in even more when he went quiet. Virgil knew his brother was just waiting for the appropriate moment, and that wasn't over a comlink in the middle of a rescue.

He sat back down heavily in the pilot's seat, thinking about the flight home. He was actively fighting the need to close his eyes now, and that was dangerous. Maybe he could make it up to John by offering to let him take the wheel for a while… Even as the thought was out, he smiled at the look he knew he'd see on his younger brother's face. John was always trying to get more flying time, but neither Scott nor Virgil normally relinquished the pilot's seats of their babies without a fight.

_Maybe I _am_ getting old…_ Virgil shook his head at himself and got ready to head Thunderbird Two over the bridge to the nearest container ship.

There was a terrifying stab of déjà vu as he heard Scott's shout in his ears. "Virgil! Stop! John's not clear!"

"What…what…" Virgil's guts turned to liquid. He couldn't believe it…he had drifted off again and he hadn't waited for John's signal that he was safely into the hold. "Oh, my God, my…"

"John! Drop! _Now!_" Scott shouted.

Virgil could only stare helplessly at the monitor as John hit the emergency release and dropped like a stone toward the ocean – a split second before the cable that had been holding him smacked into the bridge with a force that would have splintered bone.

"Virgil, get clear or you'll foul his chute," Scott ordered in a voice like thunder.

Virgil obeyed instantly, powering Thunderbird Two up and forward, dragging the monorail car beneath him. "Scott, I…"

He heard Scott swear. "What is it?" he asked anxiously. Surely this couldn't get any worse…

"His rocket assist didn't fire," Scott said through gritted teeth.

Yep, it was worse. Without the rocket chute assist to compensate for the very low altitude John had fallen from, the parachute wouldn't have been able to do much beyond slow his descent just enough to prevent him from smacking into the ocean like a brick. If he was lucky, he wouldn't have any broken bones. If he was lucky.

Virgil thought he had never felt so bad in his life as when he said goodbye to Elizabeth on the boat jetty that morning. Now he knew there were new depths of misery to plumb. "I'm sorry, Scott, God, I'm…I'm…"

His brother's words were edged with ice. "Not now, Virgil. Get that monorail car on the deck before the grabs give out. Gordon will retrieve John."

Virgil hesitated, agonized. Realizing there was nothing he could do but what he was told, he reluctantly wheeled his bird and headed for the nearest container ship.

* * *

Gordon flew Thunderbird Two home.

Hearing the frantic exchange between his two eldest brothers, unable to do anything but watch as John's rocket pack failed to fire, Gordon was already steaming toward the bridge before Scott's instructions to do so came over his com. John's chute opened, but Gordon still winced when he saw how hard his brother hit the water. That was going to leave a mark.

Minutes later he was helping a bruised, battered, spitting mad but thankfully not otherwise injured John aboard Thunderbird Four. With his elder brother behind him, refusing a towel, dripping water all over the cockpit and swearing a blue streak, he reported in to Scott – who told him in no uncertain terms that he was to fly Thunderbird Two home, and also that no matter what, he was to keep Virgil and John apart until they got back to base. Before Gordon could get his mouth open to reply, John grabbed the com and went off. Grudgingly impressed by John's command of the language, Gordon listened as Scott brought the full force of his command manner to bear and, reminding him spookily of his father, backed John down.

White-faced, John angrily cut off the com. He shrugged off Gordon's attempts to check out his physical condition, although it was fairly obvious he wasn't injured beyond what would become some pretty spectacular bruises over the next few days. Knowing this wasn't finished, Gordon got TB4 back into the pod and settled down to wait for Virgil to retrieve them.

As soon as they were in the air again and headed home, Gordon went for the hatch, followed by a silent John, who seemed subdued. It was only an act, it turned out, for as soon as they were clear of the submersible and into the pod, he suddenly shoved Gordon aside hard and ran for the elevator.

Gordon cursed and went after him. He caught John before the elevator reached the floor level, grabbed his shoulder and swung him around, ducking barely in time to avoid the right hook that came out of nowhere. "John! Quit it! Scott says you have to stay down here!"

"To hell with what Scott says," John snapped. "Virgil and I need to have a little talk."

The elevator doors opened. John made a dive for them but Gordon was right there with him, shoving him away from the controls. "Let me go!" John yelled, swinging at him again. This time it connected and Gordon crashed back against the far wall, winded.

"You're…not…going…anywhere…" he panted, lunging back at John, knowing exactly what his life would be worth if he didn't make sure his already angry eldest brother's orders weren't carried out. They struggled for a moment, each trying to gain the advantage. Then Gordon dug his fist hard into John's badly bruised ribs, wincing at the hiss of pain as John doubled over involuntarily. "Sorry, Johnny," he said, grabbing him while he was still temporarily incapacitated and pushing him out of the elevator. "But you can't come up here."

The doors snapped shut. Ignoring John's pounding and angry shouts, Gordon rode the elevator to the cockpit level, got out, and locked it off.

In the cockpit he was greeted by Brains and a very subdued, exhausted-looking Virgil. He had planned to defuse the situation with some joke about Virgil not doing himself any good in the chain of command by knocking off brothers lower on the totem pole than himself, but that all went away when he saw his brother's pale face and the dark smudges under his eyes. "Virg, you look like hell."

"Just tell me he's okay," Virgil said, his eyes pleading for good news.

"He's okay. Pissed as hell and wanting to take it out of your hide, but okay."

"He's got a right," Virgil said quietly.

Gordon glanced at Brains, standing beside Virgil to his right. Was Virgil ill? Brains indicated with a slight shake of his head that he didn't know. Gordon decided not to push it. "Virg, why don't you go back and get some rest. I'll take her from here."

Despite everything, he still expected some resistance, but Virgil just nodded numbly. He let Brains lead him back out of the cockpit toward the sleeping quarters.

Gordon settled into the pilot's seat, wondering what the hell was going on.

* * *

Scott flew beside his brother's ship all the way home, something he usually only did if Virgil were alone in Thunderbird Two. With his much faster craft he could be home sometimes as much as a couple of hours ahead, an advantage he normally exploited as much as he could.

But not today. Despite being on the verge of exhaustion himself from lack of sleep and the long hours of the rescue, he stayed back and flew escort, as if by the sheer force of his presence alone he could keep the peace between his brothers until they got back to base. When they were fifteen minutes out he told Gordon he was going ahead, in order to stow his ship and be in the hangar before Thunderbird Two landed.

During the flight he had fended off his father's questions, promising a full briefing as soon as he had had the chance to ask the questions. He kept up the avoidance when Thunderbird One docked against her gantry, taking the elevator to the monorail instead of going in through the lounge as he knew his father expected him to do. Whatever happened, he had to get to Virgil and John before Jeff did.

He heard the shouting as he came down the elevator to the ground floor of Thunderbird Two's hangar. Virgil, looking miserable and shaky, had just emerged from his ship with Gordon and Brains behind him. But John had found a way to bypass the hatch locking system – Scott roundly cursed himself for forgetting that John was the Macgyver of the family and with the most rudimentary of tools could do anything with an electronic circuit short of make it sit up and dance. As Scott approached them, he saw the hatch open and John launch himself at Virgil. Gordon yelled a warning and tried to get in between them, but John lashed out at him, landing a lucky blow that sent him crashing to the floor. Then John grabbed Virgil and the fight began.

Scott was there seconds later, pushing, shoving, yelling, trying to break them apart. Nobody was listening to him. John was as angry as he had ever seen him, and Virgil was defending himself in earnest. Back on his feet, Gordon was trying to haul John off, but despite his interference Scott was getting badly beaten up just trying to stay between the brawling pair. But he couldn't get out of the way or they'd half kill each other. Coughing from a hard blow to the stomach, he staggered back, catching a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. Then he was yelling in surprise as a freezing cold column of water smacked into them, knocking all four of them off their feet.

Winded by the fall to the concrete floor, Scott rolled over, coughing and spluttering. He managed to get his head up enough to see his father standing there, a grim expression on his face, holding the industrial strength hose they used to wash the underside of the pod vehicles. _Oh, shit._

"Upstairs, now," his father said, shutting off the hose.

* * *

They stood in front of his desk in silence moments later, dripping wet. "I'll ask you again," Jeff said. "What is going on here?"

Nothing. Virgil and John wouldn't look at each other, or at him, and Gordon maintained a steady middle-distance inspection-line gaze that would have made his WASP commanding officers proud. Finally Scott said, "Father…can I talk to you for a minute?"

Jeff's mouth set in a thin line. "All right," he said. "You three, hit the showers. And if I hear so much as a whimper…"

John shot a cold glare at Virgil and left the room first. After a moment, Virgil trailed slowly after him. Obviously reluctant to leave him there alone, Gordon glanced questioningly at Scott. Appreciating the support, Scott nevertheless nodded toward the door. Smoothing things over with their father was his job, as it had always been, and it was best done alone.

When Gordon was gone, he turned back to Jeff. "Dad, let me handle this."

"Scott, I am not going to tolerate…"

"I…I think Virgil's having some personal problems," Scott said. "Why don't you let me…"

"Personal problems? I'll say he's having personal problems – with me! He almost killed his brother today!"

"Dad!" Scott's stare was reproachful. "Virgil made a mistake today. He knows that. Nobody feels worse than he does about what happened."

"We can't afford those kinds of mistakes," Jeff snapped.

"I'm sure he's aware of that, Dad! You know as well as I do that Virgil has an almost perfect safety record…better than all the rest of us."

"Well, I might have known you'd defend him, considering…"

Scott's could feel himself getting colder and angrier by the minute. "What are you trying to say, Dad? You think my life didn't flash before my eyes when I saw Johnny fall like that? You think I wasn't counting the seconds until Gordon told me he was all right?"

"Which is precisely why I need to crack down on this right away! Virgil hasn't…"

"Am I or am I not your field commander?"

The tone of his son's voice made Jeff's eyebrows go up in surprise. "What?"

Scott stared him down, eyes like the depths of a glacier. "Am I, or am I not your field commander?"

"Of course you are."

"Then let me deal with my own troops! I'll find out what happened, and report back. Until then, nobody hangs."

Jeff sat back in his seat, studying the stiff-backed, angry young man who reminded him, suddenly and incredibly, of himself. People had mentioned the resemblance before, but this was the first time he had really seen it. He had spent many hours during his military career in Scott's position, fighting with superior officers for the right to deal with his command the way he saw fit.

"All right," he said at last, noting the look of relief that immediately crossed his son's face. "But I want a full report."

"You'll have it," Scott promised. He turned to leave the room, paused for a moment. "Father…"

Jeff looked up. "Thanks," Scott said.

Jeff nodded.

Scott came out through the door, breathing again for what felt like the first time in hours. He almost barreled straight into John, who had obviously been standing right outside. "John…"

From the look on John's face, he had heard the whole thing. His face was no longer angry, instead he looked upset and confused. "What was I supposed to do, Scott?" he said. "Virgil…"

"Virgil made a couple of bad mistakes out there today," Scott said, squeezing his brother's shoulder reassuringly. "I understand you being mad…hell, I'd have wanted to take him apart myself. But you know this isn't normal for him. Something's wrong, and I'm going to get to the bottom of it."

He didn't mention that he had a very good idea of what the problem was, and that right now he had no earthly idea of how to solve it.

John shook his head. "He's been acting like a bear for days," he said. "You should have seen him while you were in New York. Riding all of us, especially me. I almost bribed Gordon to lock him in his room and change the code just so we could catch a break."

"I'm sorry, Johnny," Scott said. "I really am. I should have been here."

John almost smiled. "You can't give every second of your life to us, Scott. We've taken most of it as it is."

Of all his brothers, John was the one who was always surprising him. Scott reached out and pulled him into a tight hug. "I'm glad you're all right," he said. "I meant what I said to Dad in there. I had a bad moment there when your rocket assist didn't fire."

"_You_ had a bad moment…"

Scott laughed.

"Ah, Scott…"

"Yeah?"

"You're killing my bruises…"

Scott grinned and let him go, stepping back. "You'd better go down and have Kyrano put that miracle cream of his on those, or you'll be screaming blue murder by morning."

John nodded, turning to trail off down the corridor. Scott turned and looked across the corridor at Virgil's door.

* * *

Virgil couldn't remember the last time he had felt so bad.

All he could think of as he numbly stripped off his uniform and got ready to shower was John's furious face. God, he'd almost killed his own brother. He felt sick inside when he thought of what might have happened.

He never made mistakes. He was known for it. Solid as a rock, they called him.

And now it had gotten so bad he'd almost killed someone.

This had to stop. Now. He couldn't take it any more. He needed to resolve this, to end this hammering, relentless pressure. He was actually afraid of what might happen, if he couldn't find a solution soon.

Virgil turned on the shower, bowing his head under the spray, letting the punishing heat pound into his aching shoulders. For the first time he was beginning to realize that there was a very real possibility that he was going to have to choose. His job and his family, or his future with the woman he loved.

The irony was that Virgil really, truly loved his job. The family constantly teased him about his obsession with "big trucks," something that had manifested itself at a very early age. Scott had told him often about the time on his grandfather's farm near Valley Falls, Kansas, when he had come out of the house one morning to find four year old Virgil standing staring up at the great green bulk of the John Deere combine harvester with something very much like love at first sight shining in his big dark eyes. Virgil didn't remember the incident, but it sure felt right. He did remember pestering his grandfather constantly to take him out into the fields in the cab of that magnificent monster, and he also recalled that he usually got his way.

Despite his very obvious gifts in the areas of art and music, and the pleading of his teachers to at least consider the offered scholarship to Julliard, the first one that a student of Valley Falls High School had ever received, Virgil wasn't interested. He had traveled to New York to play for the faculty at Julliard at the request of others, doing his duty to make others happy as he always did. But he didn't like the idea of a career in the arts…while he loved music and painting, he didn't like the people, found them flaky and unreliable at best, and downright strange at worst. His family were all "jocks," men who distinguished themselves on the sports field, the cockpits of fighter jets and the command cabins of rockets bound for space - and despite his other talents, Virgil was very much one of them. He didn't want a life spent indoors, behind a desk or a piano. He wanted to go to MIT or Caltech - or better still, if he could get in, the rapidly rising new star of the field, the Denver School of Advanced Technology. He wanted to be a part of designing and testing new vehicles of all kinds, whether they swam, flew or rolled along the ground. His acceptance by DSAT might have made his high school faculty sigh with disappointment, but it made him the happiest eighteen year old in the world.

During his third year at DSAT, Virgil interned for sixteen weeks at the local R&D powerhouse company Innovative Technologies. By the time he entered his senior year, he already knew he had a job waiting for him at InnTech, as the company was known in the field. His career plan was simple, work for the best until he had enough experience and contacts to branch out on his own. He had spent many long evenings talking over his ideas with his father, who had instilled the spirit of the entrepreneur in all of his sons. He knew he could count on Jeff Tracy's not inconsiderable support.

And then International Rescue had been born…and Virgil now got to combine his love for R&D and vehicle design with something even better…saving people's lives. There was a personal cost, however. In moving to Tracy Island, he had given up friends, a life…and a girl who had been very important to him – a girl he had lived with for two years. A girl he had been getting ready to ask to marry him.

He could vividly remember the pain of leaving her behind, but there was more to consider than just his own feelings, and despite that pain, he was well aware that she had a very bright future where she was. It would have been totally unfair to expect her to give it all up for him – so he hadn't asked. He had thought about her many times, often wondering if he had done the right thing by leaving her behind. But slowly, he'd filled the hole she'd left in his life with other things.

And now here he was again, with Elizabeth Grant. And no matter how many times he took the whole situation apart in his mind, when he put it back together there was always a great gaping hole without her. _Déjà vu_. It was going to come down to the same impossible choice.

If his father refused to bend, he might have to leave this place. He might have to start over again without the family he loved. But he couldn't face losing Elizabeth now that he'd finally found her. He couldn't go through it again. This time, he wasn't going to give her up. He just couldn't.

All he could do was hope he wasn't too late. The thought that he might not be able to get Elizabeth to forgive him suddenly hurt so much that he could hardly breathe.

He didn't realize he was crying until the broken sound of his own sobbing rose above the hiss of falling water.

* * *

On the other side of the Virgil's half open bathroom door, Scott paused in the act of knocking. He leaned against the wall for a moment, eyes closed, the sounds of his brother's pain breaking his heart.

Then he turned and quietly left the room.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**

_SIXTEEN_

**

_He'd been running forever. _

_Heart pounding, the sound of his own breathing harsh in his ears, anxiety trying to hack its way out hard and painful past his ribs.__ Panic blooming, fighting to hold on to it – deaf to the shouts, blind to the grabbing hands and the sea of staring faces. Identical white corridors like wormholes all around him, spiraling into the distance toward other places that were maybe different, maybe the same. He would never know, because the dream never changed, and there was only one place he was headed for._

_The door._

_He turned the last corner and he saw it then, as he always did. He knew it intimately by now, knew its clean, cold lines, the way the harsh lights reflected off the thick glass window set into its high-gloss surface. And as soon as it was there in front of him his whole body tried to throw itself into reverse, desperate to escape. Shirt sticking to his back, clammy with sweat, icy fingers clawing at his spine – fighting with everything he had to slow down, to stop, to turn away. _

_He knew, even as he gave it everything he had, that it was useless. Useless to resist the deep, dark undertow that had him in its grip. But he didn't want to go in there._ Oh, God, please don't make me go in there…

_Cruelty itself, inexorable, dragging him toward that door like a wave taking him under. Everything around him slowing down - adrenaline spiking in his veins, trapping every moment in amber, an insanely clear snapshot in time. The old, faded stains on the floor, the fine cracks in the paint on the walls, the smooth, cool metal of the door as his bloodsoaked hands finally reached up and touched it. _

_He pushed._

_Distorted, garbled shouts behind him, the pounding of running footsteps.__ He heard someone calling out to him, urgently…but the door was already swinging open with a great rush of displaced air, the lights beyond striking hard and bright at his eyes. Then he was staring, and the pain seized him like a hot wire wrapping round his chest and he couldn't get enough breath into his lungs for the scream that rose up and tore out his throat._

He was already bolt upright by the time his eyes snapped open. Soaked with sweat, fighting for breath, chest feeling like his ribs had caved in…_Jesus, is this what a heart attack feels like?_

_Deep breaths.__ In, out._ Jumbled images from the dream were still overlaid on his retinas like photographic negatives, burning with a cold blue fire. Shuddering, Scott closed his eyes, forcing himself to concentrate on getting his body back under control. It took a long time, but at last the sick wrenching feeling in his stomach began to fade, and he leaned slowly back against the pillow, letting the island's quiet peace wrap around him like a blanket.

He'd never seen so much before, it had never gone on that long. He lay there, fascinated and terrified…knowing without having to be told that whatever was in that room beyond the door was the answer. The psychology was idiot-print – face it, find out what it was, and the nightmares would go away.

But was he really, truly sure he wanted to _know_…?

* * *

The sound of a boat engine penetrated the upper layers of his consciousness briefly, shortly after dawn. But for once, Scott was too exhausted to do much more than stir, roll over, and slip back under.

* * *

_If I have to shake one more hand,_ Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward said to herself, _I'm never going to be able to use my fingers again._

She kept moving through the crowds in the ornate ballroom, the smile locked into place with the grit of long practice. There really wasn't any choice in the matter, after all. Interminable as they could often be, these charity events were vitally necessary in raising money for some very good causes, and it always made Penelope feel better when she could use the position she had been born into to do something that actually _meant_ something. And besides, as in any other walk of life, it really was who you knew that mattered…functions like this were what greased the wheels of the society she moved in, and more than once she'd found the friendships she'd forged in the process to be invaluable in her line of work. Her _other_ line of work, as an agent of International Rescue.

"Having fun, my dear?" Sir Jeremy Hodge appeared at her elbow, as she paused for a moment under a particularly overblown example of pre-Raphaelite portraiture. He was brandishing two glasses of champagne.

She took one of them gratefully, rolling her eyes. "That depends on your definition of fun, Sir Jeremy. Do you enjoy having your eyes poked out with hot coals?"

He laughed. "Oh, come now. It's not that bad."

Penelope fixed him with a look. Sir Jeremy grimaced. "Oh, all right, it is."

"And remember, I have to do everything you do, but in a skirt and high heels."

Sir Jeremy grinned. "And absolutely fetching you are, too," he said.

"Jeremy, you are a brave man."

He chuckled, taking a sip of the champagne.

Penelope turned slightly, sweeping the crowd from under her lashes. "Is he here yet?"

"Due to arrive any moment, from what I understand." Sir Jeremy smiled and nodded to a passing dowager. "Good evening, Duchess. Thank you for your generous gift."

"Oh, you know me, Sir Jeremy, anything for a good cause," the woman replied, her high pitched giggle completely at odds with the stateliness of her proportions. Penelope had a sudden vision of Queen Victoria in a school uniform with a plaid skirt and long gray socks, and she had to turn away to suppress the laughter that bubbled up inside her.

"Oh, quite, Duchess, quite," Sir Jeremy called after the departing woman. He shook his head. "Anything for a little slap and tickle in the rose arbor, she means."

"Jeremy!" Penelope's blue eyes went wide in pretended shock.

"Oh, everyone knows she only comes to these things to have an excuse to meet Lord Sinclair's chauffeur," he sighed. "It's not like anyone really cares. To tell you the truth, I think the men are grateful her attention is…elsewhere, for now. She's a very persuasive woman."

"Well, bully for Lord Sinclair's chauffeur," Penelope grinned, raising her glass in a toast.

They clinked glasses and drank. Then Sir Jeremy stiffened slightly. "Bandit at high noon, my dear."

"You've been up past your bedtime watching those World War II films," Penelope smiled, turning casually in the direction he indicated. "Arthritis medicine not working again?"

"I'll have you know I was quite the Gregory Peck in my youth," he said in mock protest.

"More like quite the David Niven, I think," she grinned. She glanced back at their target, a tall, wide-shouldered man who had just entered the ballroom, flanked by men he would probably introduce as his associates, although everything about them screamed bodyguard to her trained eyes. "All right. Time to go to work."

"F.A.B.," he said, very softly.

She nodded, and moved away.

* * *

The first thing he saw when he awoke again was the satellite phone on his bedside table. 

Just sitting there, an innocent piece of molded plastic. Mocking him with its closeness, its availability, its convenience. It would be so easy just to pick it up and…

Scott forced his eyes away from the phone, rolling over and staring at the ceiling. He missed her. God, how he missed her. The scent of her hair, the taste of her mouth, the way she felt in his arms. Her laugh.

He sat up slowly, shoving fingers through his tangled hair. Fighting the despair that pooled in the pit of his stomach at the thought that he could never see Tally again. God, he'd really screwed up this time, letting it go as far as it had. Now he had it bad, really bad, and there was absolutely nothing he could see that could be done about it.

Anger washed through him in a hot wave. It had been doing that more and more lately. But there was no time for it, no point. Shoving it down with an effort, he threw aside the covers and headed for the shower. He had to find Virgil and talk to him about the rescue the day before…there were reports to write and his father to placate.

The privileges of rank, he thought to himself, and almost laughed.

* * *

By the time he got to the kitchen, the first shift had already been, eaten and gone. Grandma Ruth sat at the table drinking coffee and reading Jeff's "newspaper," an electronically delivered service that he, like some other diehards from a bygone age, still insisted on printing out so that he could see and feel the paper in his hands. Of course, he could afford it. For a large portion of the populace, paper had become far too expensive now for things like newspapers, and every year the book industry made noises about cutting back their first runs even further. Scott was sorry to see that happen…he loved books, and as a kid he had spent many happy rainy and snowy afternoons curled up in one of the big leather chairs in his grandfather's study, reading. Extensive library collections like his father's were slowly becoming a thing of the past, a hobby that took more and more money to pursue and maintain. 

"Morning, Grandma." Scott bent to deliver an affectionate peck on the cheek before grabbing a mug and heading for the coffee pot.

"Morning, Scott," she smiled.

He leaned over her shoulder, glancing at the paper. "Anything interesting?"

"It's all wars and scandal and bad news," she pursed her lips disapprovingly. "I don't know why I bother."

He shrugged. "Hey, just so long as we stay out of it, I'm happy."

"International Rescue not make the papers? That'll be the day." She flipped the "newspaper" back to the front page to show him the bold black headline, "International Rescue Saves Day at Akashi Kaikyo Bridge." As usual, the headline was accompanied by a digitally created artist's impression of the scene…the press had long since become accustomed to finding ways to get around their inability to record the men and machines of International Rescue on film.

Normally, he wouldn't be able to help feeling a little pumped at the public acknowledgement of a job well done, a job they did because no one else could. But this morning all it stirred inside him was a vague feeling of melancholy. This morning, all the personal sacrifices he had made along the way were weighing heavily on his heart.

"Well, I don't know, I still think all this secrecy stuff is a downright shame," Ruth was saying with a teasing smile. "I think the world deserves to know how handsome my grandsons are, don't you think, Kyrano?"

_"You know, if there are any more like you two back at the base, you should consider doing a calendar."_

Scott heard the words as clearly as if Tally had spoken them again right there in the room. He sucked in a quick, painful breath, blinking back the sudden stinging at the back of his eyes. Forced himself to keep moving toward the refrigerator, grimly attempting to banish the vision of her that had appeared in his mind, vivid as a photograph.

"I think perhaps some things are better kept close to home, Mrs. Tracy," Kyrano smiled as he emerged from the walk-in freezer. "Good morning, Mr. Scott. Shall I prepare breakfast for you?"

"Ah…no, thanks, Kyrano...I'm just gonna grab toast and coffee." Scott was surprised at how normal his voice sounded. He kept his back turned as he grabbed bread and dropped it into the toaster, mechanically going through the motions even though the thought of food right now was like the taste of ashes in his mouth.

"Now, Scott, that's not enough breakfast for someone who flew all the way here from New York and then turned right around and did a ten hour rescue," Ruth protested.

"I'll eat later, Grandma, I promise. I'm just not…real hungry right now, that's all."

"Later you could be gone again," Ruth pointed out, shaking her head.

Scott poured coffee into a mug. "I'm not gonna waste away, honest."

Ruth clucked disapprovingly. "You're just as bad as Virgil lately. Can't get that boy to finish a plate, and he always had hollow legs."

_Virgil._ Scott's mind latched on to the reminder, grateful for something practical to distract his traitorous mind from the memory of Tally's perfume. "Speaking of… I have to talk to him. Has he had breakfast already?"

"We have not seen Mr. Virgil this morning," Kyrano said. "Perhaps he is still in his room."

The toast popped. Scott flipped it on to a plate, scraped on butter, grabbed his coffee and headed out. "Thanks. I'll go check."

He went straight to Virgil's quarters. There was no answer to his knock, so he waited a minute, then balanced the coffee cup on his toast plate and punched in the code with his freed hand.

The door swished obediently aside and he stepped into the rich chocolate, cream and gold textures of his brother's rooms. It was an inviting suite, masculine without being heavy, elegant without being pretentious, and not surprisingly boasting the best sound system on the island. It also had one other fixture found nowhere else in the area.

Back when the villa was in the design stages, Virgil was the only one of the family to put in a request for the living room of his suite to include a visually authentic, if not actually functional fireplace. When Scott laughed and asked him why he wanted, of all things, a fireplace on a tropical island, Virgil answered that he thought it would help him be less homesick for the places he was leaving behind. He turned out to be right, of course…somehow that one room could be the most emotionally soothing of any place on the island, when Scott was troubled and needed just to sit and talk. There was just something about the hypnotic flickering depths of that fireplace that always reached him, even though his mind knew full well that the flames weren't real.

But the fireplace was still and dark this morning, and Scott could tell the minute he came into the suite that the rooms were empty. The only sound was the distant murmur of the waves on the shore, wafting in through the slightly open balcony doors. Scott paused in the entrance to the bedroom, disturbed to see that his brother's bed didn't look like he'd slept there last night.

_Oh, Virgil…_ Scott glanced at the bathroom door, flinching as he remembered what he'd heard while standing there just a few hours ago. He'd made a judgment call…although it had killed him to walk away when he could hear how broken up his brother was, he'd thought it best to leave Virgil alone with at least some of his dignity intact after the double fiasco out there at the Akashi Straits. Let him get a good night's sleep, and it would be easier for them to hash things out between them, like they'd always been able to do.

But from the looks of it, it hadn't been the best call to make. He cursed softly, realizing that Virgil had spent most of the night raking over what had happened, all by himself. _Damn, why did I wait? I should have made him listen to me. I should have…_

Scott stopped that train of thought, knowing full well how unproductive it was. What was done was done, and he could fix this…problem solving was his forte, after all. He knew three or four places on the island where his brother might have gone to ground, but it would save a lot of time to find him the high-tech way if he could. He raised his left wrist and keyed in the secret code he and Virgil used to signal each other privately.

He jumped in surprise when an answering beeping immediately sounded from behind him. He turned quickly…and frowned.

Virgil's wristcom was sitting on his bedside table.

_Damn._ Now he was worried. This wasn't like Virgil at all – not wearing his wristcom at all times was a flagrant violation of IR's rules, and for very good reason. Scott scooped up the communicator, slipping it into his pocket. Their father mustn't find out about this at all costs. He was already gunning for Virgil as it was.

_Virgil, where are you?_ He put down the coffee and toast untouched, and left his brother's suite, heading for the elevator that would take him down to the monorail.

* * *

The hiss and crackle of arc welders snapped at his ears as he emerged from the monorail onto the concourse above the main hangar. He took the service elevator across from Brains' lab, and was met by the acrid smell of burning mingling with the scents of oil, grease and gasoline as the doors opened to let him out on the hangar floor. Wearing coveralls and protective masks, Brains and Gordon were working on the right rear quarter panel of a red-painted recovery vehicle in the long shadow of Thunderbird Two. "Hey, guys," Scott called. "Seen Virg anywhere?" 

Gordon looked around, pushing his mask back to reveal his oil-smudged face. "Not since we got back yesterday," he said.

"Uh, ah, no, Scott," Brains said.

Scott winced a little as he saw the dark bruise on Gordon's cheekbone, blending into the oil stains so well that he could only distinguish it when he got within a couple of feet. "John do that?"

"Uh huh." Gordon grinned. "Not that I blame him. He's got a lot worse than a couple of bruises. Even if one of mine is making me want to do a damn sight more standing than sitting this morning."

"Speaking of pains in the ass, Johnny told me last night that Virg was riding everyone pretty hard the whole time I was gone," Scott said carefully.

Brains cleared his throat, suddenly very busy checking the gauges on his acetylene torch. Gordon opened his mouth to answer, and paused, studying Scott's expression. "No way," he said after a moment. "You're out of the loop, too?"

"Gordo, what are you talking about?"

"Well, excuse me for pointing out the obvious, big bro, but you and Virg are practically hyphenated. Batman and Robin. Captain America and the Falcon. Beavis and Butthead." He stepped back quickly out of range, grinning as Scott tried to cuff him for the last one. "You not knowing what's wrong with him is kind of like one of the signs of the apocalypse."

Ah, but he did know…now. Gordon had called it right, although he didn't realize it. Scott kept the revelation out of his expression, just shaking his head. "Do me a favor, keep an eye out for him, okay? I really need to get to him before Father does, if you know what I mean."

He saw Gordon's eyes light on his wristcom for a moment, saw the faint puckering of skin between his eyes…but his younger brother didn't ask the obvious question. "F.A.B."

"Ah, Scott, since you a-are, here, Mr. Tracy wanted me to, uh, go over the problem with Thunderbird One's i-ignition," Brains said. "He wants a report a-as soon as, uh, possible."

"He's not the only one," Scott said. He hesitated for a moment, torn between needing to troubleshoot this dangerous problem and going to try to find Virgil. But he knew it wasn't really a choice that he could make freely…for one thing, it wasn't worth risking adding another thing to his father's list of potential irritations. Not if he was going to find a way to get Virgil back on to Jeff's good side. "I guess we should get to it," he said to Brains at last, shoulders sagging a little in defeat.

Brains nodded and turned to head toward the monorail. After a moment Scott moved reluctantly to follow him.

"He took one of the boats out."

Scott paused, turning back to look at his younger brother in surprise. He couldn't see the expression in Gordon's eyes past the welding mask that he'd lowered back into place. "What?"

"Early this morning. Just in case you were thinking about looking for him." Without waiting for a response, he fired up the torch and turned back to his task. Scott watched him for a moment, but Gordon didn't volunteer anything else.

"Scott," Brains called. "A-are you, uh, coming?"

"Yeah, be right there," Scott said absently. That settled it…Virgil could be anywhere in this tiny chain of islands by now. It would be impossible to find him without taking to the air. Whatever needed to be said would have to wait until his brother decided to come back home.

He glanced up once at the great green bulk of Thunderbird Two, towering one hundred twenty feet above them on her gleaming silver struts. Then he turned away again and headed toward the monorail to join Brains.

* * *

"Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward, I presume," her quarry said, raising the back of her proffered hand to his lips. "Qasim al Kahdir, at your service." 

"Welcome to England, Mr. Kahdir. I trust you are enjoying your visit so far."

"Indeed, yes, Lady Penelope. Everyone has been most attentive. But then, that is to be expected, wouldn't you say…considering that your aristocracy has a great deal more breeding than financial resources these days."

Startled, Penelope raised her eyes to meet a dark, hooded gaze that reminded her of a bird of prey targeting its next meal. She let the steel show in her voice, just a little. "You're right, of course, Mr.Kahdir. It would seem that we each have something to offer the other, wouldn't it?"

She saw his eyes glitter momentarily as the meaning of her words sank home. Then, unexpectedly, Kahdir smiled – the expression softening the cruel angularity of his features. "Quite so, Lady Penelope, quite so. Ambassador el Ahmadi warned me that you are as formidable as you are beautiful. I see he was not mistaken."

"Ah, dear Abdul," Penelope murmured. "He exaggerates, of course. But he's so charming when he does it that one can't really mind."

Khadir chuckled. "And now, Lady Penelope, I presume that there are some people you would like me to meet?"

Penelope raised her eyebrows. "Why, Mr. Kahdir, I do believe you're a ringer. You've done this before."

"I will not tell if you will not," Kahdir smiled. He offered his arm. "Shall we?"

As Penelope slipped her arm through his and they began to cross the room, her gaze fell briefly on Sir Jeremy, still where she had left him under the pre-Raphaelite painting. He nodded almost imperceptibly and moved away.

* * *

_'Strewth,_ Parker thought to himself as his pager vibrated silently in the depths of his pocket. _That bloke 'as worse timin' than h'a tap dancer with two left plates o' meat! _

He stared gloomily at his cards, the best he'd held all afternoon, and sighed. "Deal me out for a couple of 'ands, gents."

The other chauffeurs sitting around the big square kitchen table looked up as he rose to his feet. "Where're you off to, Nosy?" asked one of them, a youngish man with a blunt, square build and the broken nose of a boxer. "The game's just gettin' good, mate."

"Keep your 'air on, Pete. Just got to take h'a little trip to the khazi." Parker patted his stomach, leaning over conspiratorially to the occupants of the table. "'er Ladyship's 'ad those visitors from the' imalayas, you know,'an Lil h'ain't quite got the 'ang of that goat's meat curry yet."

A chorus of mock-disgusted sounds chased him through the door into the hallway. "Hey, Nosy, light a match this time, will yer?" one of the older men called after him.

"I'll light a match h'under _you_, you ol' coot," Parker promised with a grin, closing the door behind him.

As soon as he was safely out of sight, he turned the other way from the bathroom, heading for the door that led out of the kitchen wing of the stately home. Bearing right in the direction of the stables, he crunched over the gravel driveway and past the valet stand, glancing a little disdainfully down his nose at the two fresh-faced kids in uniform who manned it. _Valet parking,_ he thought. _You'd 'ave to shoot me first._

Round the corner behind the stables was the wide paved sweep where the guests' cars were parked. Parker crossed behind the Mercedes, BMWs and Aston Martins to the area reserved for chauffeured vehicles. FAB1, Lady Penelope's six-wheeled, custom built pink Rolls Royce, was parked near the end of the line, right next to a sleek black Mercedes S Class limousine with discreetly tinted windows. Parker sized up the driver, a dark-suited young man of Middle Eastern parentage, smoking an acrid-smelling Turkish cigarette a few feet past the back of the limousine. Part driver, part bodyguard, trained to do whatever it took to get his passenger out of trouble in case of attack on the road. Probably a crack shot, too.

_Like swipin' sweets from a nipper._ Parker strolled toward the driver's door of FAB 1. "Son, you're in serious danger h'of missin' your dinner, standin' around h'out 'ere. H'if I was you, h'I'd get meself inside and take a load h'off. The gentry'll be a while yet, an' Lord Braithwaite's Annie makes a mean Salisbury steak."

The young man stared at him in total incomprehension. "Excuse me?" he said at last, in heavily accented English.

"You, h'inside, eat," Parker said, gesturing in the general direction of the main house.

The young man's expression cleared as he understood, but he immediately shook his head. "I am sorry…but I must not leave car."

Parker shrugged. "Suit yourself. Take h'it from me, though…you're missin' h'out."

He fished the remote out of his pocket and triggered the door release. As he bent to reach inside the Rolls, he heard a slight snorting sound from behind him. He straightened up slowly and turned, on his dignity. "H'excuse me, do you 'ave a problem, young man?"

The limousine driver was struggling to keep the smile off his face. "Your car…is very…_pink_…"

"H'it's not my car, h'it's 'er Ladyship's car, and you don't 'ave h'any idea what you're talkin' h'about," Parker responded haughtily. He studied the other man for a moment, then: "Come 'ere, sonny. 'Ave a gander h'at this."

He lifted the remote again and pressed the hood release. He saw interest immediately cross the young man's face. There was only a moment's hesitation before he joined Parker at the front of the Rolls. "Now you tell me h'if that 'ain't a thing h'of beauty," Parker said proudly, inviting him to take a closer look at FAB 1's impressive engine.

The young man leaned forward. By the time he smelled the fine mist that Parker sprayed swiftly into his face, he was already slumping unconscious over the open hood.

Parker caught him as his legs gave out. Shouldering the younger, slighter man's weight easily, he dragged him around to the open driver's door of the Rolls and set him down inside. He rummaged in the driver's pockets and retrieved the keys to the limousine, then grabbed a small black bag from under an access panel behind the Rolls' seat. He checked his watch briefly…five minutes until the knockout spray began to wear off. _Piece h'of cake._

Five minutes later, the job done and the bag stowed back in its hiding place, he was back standing by FAB 1's open hood – holding the young man's sleeping form upright beside him. He checked his watch again. Any moment now.

The limousine driver groaned and stirred, mumbling in Arabic. "Whoa, steady h'on there, are you h'okay?" Parker said immediately.

The young man blinked at him, confused and disoriented. "What…is happening…?"

"You almost fainted there, son! Good thing h'I caught you, or you'd 'ave ruined your good Sunday suit."

Weaving, the driver pulled away from him and straightened up. "I do not know…what is wrong with me," he mumbled.

"H'are you sure you can't come h'inside an' sit a spell?" Parker asked solicitously.

The young man shook his head. "Well, tell you what," Parker said, "You go sit in your car for a little bit, and h'I'll 'ave Annie send you h'out a spot of supper."

The driver nodded. "Thank you. I am…most grateful."

Parker smiled as he turned away. "Don't mention it, son. Don't mention it."

* * *

"O-okay, uh, Scott, a-again, please." 

Scott glanced down toward the island, just a tiny patch of emerald green from this height, surrounded by the endless turquoise of the South Seas. "F.A.B., Brains…here I come."

He killed the main engines, took a deep breath and terminated the VTOL jets. Thunderbird One dropped like a one hundred forty ton stone, wallowing slightly in the air as the heavier weight of her boosters dragged her tail down faster than her nose. Scott kept his eyes on his instruments, counting it off, breathing through the discomfort of the climbing g-forces as his ship plummeted like an ungainly duck toward the water.

At ten he hit the ignition. The silver rocket plane's boosters roared back to life, delivering a reassuringly powerful kick to the small of his back. Leaping forward under full power, she was instantly transformed once more into the swan he knew and loved. Scott let out his breath again. "Right on the money, Brains," he said, ignoring the pinpricks of sweat that had broken out across his forehead. "That's nine in a row."

"Ah, yes, uh, Scott, it would seem that we, ah, have solved the problem."

Scott smiled – he knew that tone of voice. "But you want one more just in case, right?"

Brains had the good grace to sound sheepish. "Uh, yes, please. I-if you would."

"F.A.B." What the hell, it was a beautiful day for it, and he'd much rather be out here doing this than cooped up in his office slogging through mission reports and maintenance records. And flying had the added benefit of keeping his mind off…_other_ things…things that were eating at him, things he really didn't want to think about right now – things he still didn't have the slightest idea how to even begin dealing with.

_She even loved the sky like he did._ He stared out unseeingly at the horizon, his mind suddenly filled with the sight of her laughing and shrieking with delight as he made the _Dragonfly_ dance just for her…

_No._

Harshly, he forced his mind away from those thoughts and back to the matter at hand. The late afternoon sun flashed off his left wing as his Thunderbird wheeled to the west. He was about to take her up again to the preset drop altitude, when an alarm began to sound. He glanced down at the warning light spattering at his eyes, and checked the display. There was a telltale blip on his radar scope. "Base from Thunderbird One, do you read sea traffic in the area, over?"

"Affirmative, Scott." John's voice came back from launch control, where he and Brains were supervising the ignition experiments. "Don't sweat it…she's one of ours."

Relief washed over Scott. "One of ours" meant the boat's transponder was broadcasting their encoded "safe" signal, and with only one vehicle unaccounted for, that meant it had to be Virgil. "F.A.B., John.," he said, keeping his voice neutral. "I'm going to check it out anyway – be back in a flash.""

Before anyone could say anything, he flipped his 'bird over in a loop and took her in a long shallow dive toward the water.

It only took him thirty seconds to spot the frothy wake of the boat, just clearing the leading edge of one of the tiny outcroppings of rock beyond the nearby island of Moyla. Virgil hadn't gone to Mateo, then, as Scott had thought was most likely. Mateo, a much smaller, but closer-by island shaped like a crescent moon, also belonged to the Tracy family, and basically functioned as International Rescue's storehouse and emergency shelter in case anything happened to Tracy Island itself. All supplies were delivered there, to minimize traffic to Tracy Island, and then brought over to the main island as needed. Mateo had a safe harbor and a lovely sweep of sandy beach on the eastern side, and was a favorite getaway for those inevitable times when Tracy Island just seemed like it was suffering from an overabundance of family.

Judging by the trajectory of the speedboat's wake, Virgil had probably gone quite a distance that day, further even than the small necklace of islands beyond Moyla, a bigger, populated island further to the south east. Scott realized suddenly that this really wasn't so different from what Virgil had done a handful of times as a teenager when the pressure got too much and he needed time alone to sort out his feelings…only back then it was his truck he had taken off in. Around here, of course, that wasn't a viable option…what roads there were, went nowhere very fast.

Scott glanced at the radio, tempted for a minute to signal his brother, but he decided against it. The channel wasn't secure, and in any case he wanted to have their talk face to face – no matter how painful that might turn out to be. He contemplated the situation for a moment…then a tight smile spread across his face. There _was_ one thing he could do that would mean volumes to Virgil, and show him without a single word spoken that he needn't worry, he would always have his elder brother's support.

He banked Thunderbird One wide to the left, bringing her around in a lazy arc until he was directly behind the speedboat. Then he aimed her at the drink and opened up the throttles.

He took her in low and fast, keeping her barely high enough above the waves to avoid swamping the open back of the boat. The sun flashed blindingly off the rocket plane's silver fuselage, the booming roar of her insanely powerful engines scattering the sea birds on Moyla's volcanic cliffs. As the boat shot by below him in a blur of blue and white paint and creamy wake, Scott flipped his Thunderbird into a fast right aileron roll, leveled her out and immediately flipped her into an identical roll to the left. It had been his old signal to Virgil when he was first learning to fly and he knew his younger brother was down on the ground watching. A message specifically for him that said, _having a great time, wish you were here…_ Today it simply meant, _don't sweat it,_ _we're cool_ – and he knew without having to hear the words that Virgil would understand perfectly.

Feeling a little better that at least he'd done something to alleviate the tension, Scott left the speedboat far behind and pointed Thunderbird One's red nose cone toward open sky. Time to play elevator again. "Base from Thunderbird One…climbing to test altitude."

"F.A.B., Thunderbird One. Waiting for your mark."

"F.A.B."

_**To Be Continued...**_


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**_SEVENTEEN_**

Sir Jeremy found Penelope outside, sheltering from the cold evening drizzle under Holcomb Hall's elegant Adam portico. He watched as she said goodbye to Qasim al Kahdir, laughing at something the tall, harsh-featured Arab said as he kissed the back of her hand. His dark eyes lifted briefly as he released her, resting their penetrating stare on Sir Jeremy for a moment. The Englishman suddenly found himself wondering who was the snake, and who the mongoose.

Then Kahdir was gone, and his driver was closing the door of the Mercedes. Moments later the limousine pulled away, looping around the traffic circle towards the main road out of the estate.

Sir Jeremy stepped forward. "Either you're a very good actress, my dear, or that chap turned out to be more interesting than you thought."

"I am a very good actress, as you well know," Penelope chuckled. "But yes, he is a most fascinating man."

"And an arms dealer," Sir Jeremy reminded her. "And a supplier of mercenary armies to other countries. Among several other distinctly nefarious occupations."

Penelope smiled thoughtfully, watching the limousine's tail lights disappear into the gathering dusk. "Pity, isn't it. I haven't had that much fun in ages."

The crunch of tires on gravel announced the arrival of FAB 1. Parker pulled the pink Rolls smoothly to a halt and got out to hold the door for Penelope, a sleek, soft reddish-brown coat in his hands. "H'I took the liberty of breakin' out your faux fox, milady. H'it's a bit nippy out."

"Thank you, Parker. That was most thoughtful of you." Penelope slipped her arms into the extremely expensive replica of a fox fur coat – she was adamantly opposed to wearing real fur, of course, but she didn't see why an imitation couldn't look and feel exactly like the real thing. She kissed Sir Jeremy goodbye on the cheek and turned to step inside the Rolls.

Sir Jeremy watched as she settled into the back seat, crossing her long elegant legs. "Be careful, my dear," he warned. "He may be fascinating…but he's also very dangerous."

Penelope nodded. "I won't take any chances, I promise."

"Why don't I believe you?" Sir Jeremy shook his head, then stood back and allowed Parker to close the door.

"Don't you go worryin' yourself, Sir Jeremy. 'Er Ladyship's in good 'ands."

Sir Jeremy smiled. "I'm counting on it, Parker."

As they curved around the turning circle and on to the road toward the main gates, Parker was already flipping switches on the dashboard to open up the hidden nerve center of FAB 1. Behind him the tempered glass partition slid up into place on the right side only, preparing to transmit data from the Rolls' sophisticated tracking equipment.

Parker watched from the corner of his eye as the display on the dashboard flickered from snow into a maze of broken, converging lines that slowly settled into a coherent grid. A small yellow light blinked slowly on and off, moving across the screen. "Target h'acquired, milady," he said with satisfaction.

"I see that, Parker. Well done." Penelope studied the echo of the tracking screen that was now displayed heads-up style on the glass of the partition. "Where do you think he's headed?"

Parker initiated the map overlay. "Looks like the motorway, milady."

"Ah, of course." She glanced out through the Rolls' discreetly tinted windows at the steady drizzle. "I do hope he's not going to take us too far afield. This weather makes one rather long for a nice quiet evening in front of a roaring fire, don't you think?"

Parker chuckled, trying to picture his intrepid employer choosing a safe seat by the fire over a night of action and intrigue. "Forgive me, milady, but h'I can't quite h'imagine that."

"One day," Penelope said. "One day, Parker. Mark my words. I'll turn into one of those eccentric, excessively well-traveled old ladies with more stories than anyone wants to hear. And then I'll sit in front of that fire and put brandy in my tea while I write my memoirs."

Parker cleared his throat. "Speakin' h'of the Duchess h'of Royston…"

Penelope's clear laugh rang out from the rear of the Rolls.

She liked to drive in the rain. Letting her head lean back against the headrest, she watched the Rolls' headlights glisten wetly on the drizzle-slick tarmac ahead. She touched her fingers to the window control in her arm rest, sliding down the bullet proof glass just enough so she could hear the hiss of the tires on the roadway. One thing she'd never really liked was how soundproof a luxury vehicle like this was…you might as well be floating in midair for all the contact you could feel with the ground.

A signpost appeared, swallowed up again in the gathering gloom as they swept by. 'Soft Verges.' Penelope smiled, remembering the game she and her father had played when they drove together, when she was small. He had always insisted that the signpost was announcing the approach of a real town called 'Soft Verges,' inhabited, he said, by a laid back, amiable sort of people…quite different from the rambunctious lot who lived in that other mysterious town, 'Loose Chippings.' Somehow, Penelope and her father never arrived at either one of those places, no matter how many times they passed the signs…but her father always just rolled his eyes and blamed short staffing at the Ministry of Transportation. _Rather a lot_ _of things slipping through the cracks these days,_ he'd say. _Don't know what this country's coming to. But don't worry…when you grow up you'll be Queen Penelope of the Highways and Byways, and you can sort them all out._ Sometimes he even managed to get through the entire speech without chuckling and giving himself away.

An old knife twisted quietly, deep inside her. Her father had been such a nice man, so warm, so full of fun…before they'd lost Stuart. Stuart, her reckless, clever, devil-may-care elder brother, so much like him in so many ways, so determinedly pursuing his dream of becoming the best rally driver on the planet. Stuart, killed so senselessly, so brutally, halfway through the Monte Carlo Rally in the worst crash that race had ever seen. Killed along with her fiancé, his best friend and co-driver in that race and many others before, Yves Rossini.

Penelope closed her eyes. It was the quiet times that were the worst. Especially when she could hear the sound of tires on the road.

"Now where's 'e goin'?" Parker said suddenly. "Timbuktu?"

Penelope glanced at the display. The yellow light, which had been proceeding steadily east toward the motorway, had veered sharply back on itself and was now headed north west. "Not the motorway after all, I'm presuming."

Parker shook his head. "Beats me. There's nothin' down that way but h'a bunch o' blinkin' cows. Not even h'a decent pub."

"And you would know," Penelope said, the corners of her mouth twitching into a smile. "Being a connoisseur of such things."

"Quite right, milady. Quite right. There's more to a good pub than a couple h'of window boxes wi' geraniums h'in 'em an' a 'alfway decent brew on tap. H'atmosphere, that's what h'it's all about. H'atmosphere."

"Well, one day, Parker, you shall have to open your own establishment and show us all how it's done."

"Quite, milady. H'I shall. Give us h'a real pub, not one of them yuppie joints where h'all they serve h'is Pimms 'an lager h'an lime."

The disdain in his voice was so pronounced that Penelope had to laugh.

They had reached the point now where the Mercedes had turned off the main road ahead of them – halfway through a tiny village, the weathered stone of the cottages the color of pale butter in FAB 1's headlights. The big Rolls made the turn smoothly, Parker keeping half an eye on the blinking tracer.

The new road was smaller and narrower, winding across the twilight countryside like an asphalt river between high hedged banks. There was only room for one car at a time, which explained the convenient laybys dotted along its length at random on either side. A road like this could be hazardous in daylight, with no glow of approaching headlights to give fair warning that a car was coming in the opposite direction, hidden beyond the crest of one of its frequent rises. Tonight, though, they encountered nothing at all but the softly falling rain.

"What the 'eck…?" Parker's voice called Penelope's attention back to the tracking display. The dot had stopped dead. It hesitated for a moment, then doubled back on itself, halted again, and then veered abruptly to the left.

Penelope leaned forward. "Perhaps a good, swift kick, Parker?"

"Very funny, milady," Parker grunted. He glanced back at the display, frowning. "I don't know what 'e's doin'. There's no turn-off where 'e is, not h'according to the map. That's not h'exactly a h'off road vehicle 'e's got there."

"Be careful, Parker," Penelope said. The tension crept up her spine, nesting uneasily between her shoulderblades. "Slowly does it."

The dot had stopped again. The Rolls headed toward the crest of the next rise, slowing to ten miles an hour as she topped it and started down the other side into the dark well below.

And was caught squarely in the suddenly blazing headlights of Qasim al Kahdir's Mercedes limousine.

Penelope gasped in surprise. "Parker..!"

"Strewth!" Parker swore. "'Ow the 'eck…?"

"Don't stop, Parker. Keep driving!" Penelope was bolt upright in her seat, mind racing. Why had Kahdir turned around? And why was he parked by the side of the road? Could this be the rendezvous point? And what in blue blazes had happened to their tracking device?

"Milady…" Parker was clearly unhappy.

"Just do it, Parker." Penelope pressed a button on her arm rest and a tray slid out, revealing the compact shape of her favorite sidearm, a .9mm Glock 19. She swiftly loaded one of the two 15 round magazines and replaced the pistol on the tray, where it would sit concealed between her and the window, ready in case she needed it. "Pull up alongside."

Parker shot a startled glance into the rear view mirror, but Penelope's expression gave him ample proof that she was serious. "Sir Jeremy's goin' to 'ave me 'ide," he muttered, shaking his head. But he did as she asked.

Penelope watched as they approached the parked Mercedes, sitting there motionless like a shark waiting for its prey in the shadows, dark except for the bright beams of its headlights. The windows had the same privacy tinting as those of FAB 1, giving nothing away about the occupants within.

The Rolls slowed to a halt and she lowered her window, smiling brightly.

After a moment, the left rear passenger window lowered on the Mercedes also. So did the one opposite the driver, but she kept her expression from showing that she had noticed. Out of sight below her own window, her fingertips stroked the butt of the Glock. "Why, Mr. Kahdir!" she said brightly. "We thought that was you! It must be fate!"

"Indeed, Lady Penelope," Kahdir nodded, those hard hawk's eyes penetrating her with x-ray intensity. His voice was like cold steel, like the darkness inside the barrel of a gun. "What brings you this way?"

Penelope chuckled, shaking her head. "Oh, you don't know Parker and his shortcuts. He's always getting us lost looking for the quickest way home, and it always takes twice as long as going the regular way. But I just can't seem to break him of the habit." Before Kahdir could comment, she moved smoothly on. "Are you having trouble? Can we offer assistance? Parker might have a rather poor sense of direction, but he's very good with engines."

"Thank you, Lady Penelope, but no. We are fine. But I thank you for the offer."

"Don't mention it, Mr. Kahdir." Penelope paused for a moment, but no more was forthcoming from the stone-faced Arab. "Until we meet again, then."

"And we will, Lady Penelope, we will. Of that I am most assured."

A chill ran down Penelope's spine, but she clamped down on the reflexive shudder, refusing to let it be visible. She smiled brightly and waved as she raised her window again. "Get us out of here, Parker," she murmured. "Quickly."

Parker needed no second bidding. "Do you think 'e bought h'it, Milady?"

"I don't know, Parker. I don't know."

* * *

By the time Brains finally called a halt to the ignition testing, Scott was climbing Thunderbird One's riveted metal walls with impatience. It had been more than an hour since he'd seen Virgil bringing the speedboat home, and he kept glancing compulsively at his wristcom, expecting to hear his father's voice at any moment with an order to report back immediately. But there had been nothing – and he didn't know whether that was a good sign or a bad one. _Wait for me, Virg, _he pleaded mentally with his brother._ Don't go in there on your own…_

Brains hadn't even finished his sentence before Scott was wheeling the silver rocket plane and burning fuel for home. Lowering his ship tail first into her silo was something he could almost do in his sleep by now – her descent was laser guided, as was Thunderbird Three's, so all he had to do was swing her through ninety degrees until her attitude was vertical, adjust position to match up the dots on his screen and nothing much could go wrong. He could land her manually if he had to, of course, and he often did – it was never smart to get too dependent on mechanical help of any kind. But many times, coming back off a rescue exhausted both mentally and physically, he welcomed the ability to just surrender to the zen-like wisdom of those little blinking lights.

He let the guidance system handle the landing today. He was too distracted thinking about getting to Virgil in time to avert disaster. Knowing his younger brother, one of two things had taken place while he had been out in the boat all day. Either he had settled things inside himself successfully and come up with a plan of action, or he had brooded himself into a very dark place. Either way, anything could happen. Calm, reliable, predictable Virgil could get extremely volatile and _un_predictable if he was pushed too far. It took a while to light his fuse, but when that flame appeared…even Scott knew to get the hell out of his way.

And of course, thinking about Virgil's problems led his mind straight to another place. A place he really, _really_ didn't want it to go.

_Tally._ Every time the thought of her crossed his mind he would feel that pit open up inside him again…that place of empty despair.

_I can't deal with this now._ Shaking it off, shoving down the feelings with a tremendous effort of will, he left his bird on her pad and crossed the gantry to the villa lounge entrance. The lounge was cool and empty, the drapes billowing gently in the tropical breeze. Tin-Tin's wind chimes tinkled, like the sound of water over rocks interpreted by music. Beyond them, over the balcony, he could hear splashing and laughter coming from down by the pool. He doubted, however, that Virgil would be down there, in his present mood. He tended to hole up somewhere when he got like this, like a wounded bear in a cave.

After the lounge, Scott searched the kitchen, Virgil's room, the rec room and the upstairs living room they used for conferences, but didn't find his brother. Pausing to figure out where to look next, he heard his father's voice…talking to someone in his office.Scott tensed. Slipping closer, he saw that the door was a few inches ajar. He glanced in, and relaxed instantly as he realized that Virgil wasn't in there. Then Jeff glanced around and saw him, and signaled at him to come in.

_Uh, oh.__ Here we go._ Scott entered reluctantly, Virgil's wristcom burning a hole in his pocket. But Jeff was concentrating his attention somewhere else – Scott followed his father's line of sight, belatedly noticing that Penelope's portrait was showing her live image. "Good timing, son," Jeff said. "Penny's reporting in."

"Hello, Scott," Penny said, nodding to him in acknowledgement. She looked tense, he noticed. Tense and very tired, faint blue smudges under her eyes.

"How'd it go with Kahdir, Penny?" Jeff asked.

"Not well, I'm afraid. Parker planted the bug successfully, and we followed the car, but he turned the tables on us."

Scott raised his eyebrows at his father, but Jeff was concentrating on Penelope. "What happened?" the elder Tracy prompted, frowning.

"We don't know. We don't know how he even found the bug. It's never happened before – Parker's very good at what he does, as you know."

Jeff nodded. "We noticed the tracking screen behaving a bit oddly," Penelope continued, "and then we were over the rise and he was right there in front of us. He'd turned the car around and he let us have it with his headlights as soon as we appeared. He was waiting for us, Jeff. We were caught like amateurs."

Scott could hear how angry she was at herself, even though she was doing her best to hide it under the practiced smoothness of her tone. "Were you made?" he asked.

"There's no way to know for sure. I did my best to pass off our appearance as coincidence. But…"

She paused, eyes shadowing. "What is it, Penny?" Jeff asked.

"We hid out until we were sure they were gone. Then we went back and located the bug. Kahdir had left it on a scarecrow in the field next to where he was parked. And…"

She paused for a moment, glancing offscreen. Then she said, quietly, "We also found his driver. Propped up in front of the scarecrow. Garroted."

There was silence for a long few seconds. Then Jeff shook his head slowly. "This is the kind of people we're dealing with. One mistake, and you're out. Listen to me, Penny – I want you to be very careful. That was a warning. Watch your back."

"Oh, don't worry, Jeff, we'll be fine," Penelope said, weariness weighing down her voice. "We'll take proper precautions. I just wish I knew for sure what he knows."

Jeff glanced toward the row of clocks on the wall. "It's late over there, Penny…get some sleep. We'll work on this tomorrow."

Penny nodded. "It did take a while to deal with that unforeseen complication. Very well, Jeff. I will speak to you in the morning."

The screen became her painting again. Jeff exhaled. "I don't like this, Scott. She's acting like she's tough as nails, but she's…"

"A girl?" Despite the situation, Scott couldn't quite keep his mouth from quirking in amusement.

Jeff paused in midstream, closing his mouth. He gave a sigh that was more bemused exasperation than real annoyance. "Now, don't you start. I have enough of that from Tin-Tin and your grandmother. I only meant…"

Scott just smiled. He knew his father had no real prejudice in him…unless you could call the tendency to want to protect what he had been raised to believe was the more vulnerable sex. "I know what you meant, Dad…but a third of my graduating class at OTS were girls. And trust me, you wouldn't want to wind up on the wrong side of their gun sights."

They both turned at the knock on the office door. "Father?"

Scott tensed. It was Virgil.

"Yes, Virgil?" Jeff responded.

Virgil stuck his head around the door, hesitating for a moment when he saw Scott. Then he looked back at his father. "I need to talk to you, Father, it's important."

Jeff frowned, distracted. "Not now, Virgil. I've got a situation to deal with."

"Father…"

"I'm sorry, son. Come and see me after dinner. We'll talk then."

Virgil's mouth tightened, but Jeff didn't see it, already busy at his computer terminal. Virgil flicked a glance at Scott, his expression giving away nothing of what he was thinking. Then he turned abruptly and left the room.

Scott didn't like the pale, pinched look around Virgil's eyes…it was from more than just not sleeping, he knew. He immediately moved to go after his brother, but Jeff stopped him without looking up. "Hold on a minute, Scott. I want you here for this."

Scott ground his teeth in frustration, looking longingly at the door. But there was no way to explain why he wanted to leave right then without drawing more of the wrong kind of attention to Virgil. He sighed and turned back to his father's desk.

"How did they penetrate the shielding on that bug?" Jeff was muttering as he called up screens. "They shouldn't have been able to do that. Get Brains up here, will you?"

Scott reached for the desk com, but before he could flip the switch, his father let out a low whistle. "Son of a bitch."

Scott raised his eyebrows in surprise. His father rarely swore, at least in front of the family, so this had to be important. "What is it, Dad?"

Jeff looked up at him, expression grim. "Agent 27 just reported in. Qasim al Kahdir is dead. His body was found two hours ago, in Cairo."

"Dead?" Scott had the sinking feeling that there was more coming, and he was right.

"For at least three days, according to the authorities. Whoever Penny was following in England, it wasn't Kahdir."

* * *

Jeff sent a message to Agent 27 immediately via their secure communications net, requesting a conference as soon as possible. She must have been standing by, because the communication had only barely been sent before a flashing red light signaled that Tin-Tin had her waiting on a secure channel. Jeff gave the go-ahead and the light changed to a steady green. He and Scott turned as the hidden wall screen lowered smoothly from the ceiling. 

In civilian life, Agent 27 was Halima Zohry, an attractive, middle aged Egyptian woman with a voracious appetite for fine art and a penchant for covering her head with brightly colored scarves. The art collecting, she and Jeff had in common…she owned her own gallery in which she spent a great deal of time and effort championing emerging female artists from her part of the world, and Scott had heard his father haggling with her many times over the price of a painting or a particularly unique piece of sculpture. He had always admired his father's ability to bargain like that, something that he himself had always felt uncomfortable doing. Jeff and Ruth didn't understand it…both hard-headed, dyed-in-the-wool bargainers, they shook their heads over him as if he had some kind of strange genetic fault. Scott blamed it on both of them having grown up in limited economic circumstances – you didn't make a lot of money growing wheat and soybeans on a family farm, no matter how hard you worked or how efficient your methods. In contrast, Scott had known from a young age that they had become very rich indeed. Thanks to the sheer size and scope of the aerospace contracts that his father had won for their company in the early days, they had begun making serious profits by the time Scott was thirteen, and by the time he was fifteen Tracy Aerospace was blazing a trail up the Forbes 500 with dizzying speed. And while Scott wouldn't have traded their changed circumstances for anything, and acknowledged happily that the money had done a lot of wonderful things for their lives, it also made him feel acutely guilty, somewhere down deep, for not paying full price for everything.

The screen locked into place and Halima's face appeared. Today's scarf, Scott noted, was emerald silk. "Hello, Jeff. How is the Haddad?"

"Beautiful, of course," Jeff smiled. "It's on its way to New York right now. Should be on display by Friday."

Halima smiled back. Despite her fierce independence and her reputation for pursuing feminist freedoms for herself and her fellow Egyptian women, she always seemed comfortable and almost motherly to Scott…remindinghim more of a favorite high school teacher than an undercover agent. But as he well knew, that was precisely the point. Not much value in a spy who was easily identifiable as such to everyone around them.

He shifted a little as that line of thought stirred an uncomfortable recent memory. It had been a valuable experience, a necessary one, but also one that was still capable of disturbing his self confidence even now, six months after it had happened. Last fall, in an eerie foreshadow of the trouble they were now having, Jeff had sent him to England to meet with Penelope and Sir Jeremy, to discuss the security of International Rescue and how to protect its operatives and agents from criminal organizations like that run by the Hood. While he was there, Penelope had introduced him to her current houseguest, Nigel Foote, a young man with a disingenuous prep school accent and thick blond hair that constantly fell into his eyes. He wore a cricket sweater everywhere and chattered on and on about the England-Australia rivalry with a fervor Scott usually associated with evangelical preachers. Scott never could figure out exactly why he was staying at Creighton-Ward Manor in the first place, or what his connection was to Penelope, although it seemed to be something complicated to do with family. To be honest, he'd quickly started to tune him out, something he'd learned to do in sheer self defense as a teenager, when one of his younger brothers brought home a friend who got on his nerves.

A week later, Nigel made him regret it. Penelope and Sir Jeremy staged a raid on Creighton-Ward Manor for Scott's benefit, and the young man he had thought completely harmless demonstrated that he was in reality a ruthless and highly efficient former undercover government operative who now trained heads of state and major corporations in the realities of private security on a global scale. It was all over almost before it began, and a stunned and profoundly shaken Scott Tracy was left with the realization that if the raid had been real, he would have been dead or captured in less than fifteen minutes. All because not for a _second_ had he considered Nigel Foote any kind of threat.

And any one, or all, of his family could have suffered the same fate. It was a sober and lasting warning to never, _ever_ judge a book by its cover.

"Take it from the top, Halima," Jeff was requesting. "Scott's been gone for a few days and he doesn't have the whole picture."

"Of course," Halima responded in her gentle, lilting accent. "As you know, we have been working intensively on tracking down the Hood's identity and whereabouts since Scott's recent experience in Thunderbird One."

Another difficult memory. Scott looked away from the sympathetic softening of her mouth. "We have discovered that he is a very elusive individual indeed," she continued. "He is like a shadow, everywhere at once when no one is looking, but always disappearing completely when the light is turned on. Interpol and the secret services of many countries have files on him, but they are filled with not much more than hunches, assumptions and hearsay. He is a master of disguise and misdirection…nobody even knows what his real name might once have been. Over the years there have been many attempts to follow through leads that might reveal his identity, but all of them have turned out to be dead ends. All we really know from intensive study of the few first-hand encounters that we have found – including yours, Scott – is that there is a high probability that he is originally from somewhere in the Far East, perhaps China or even Malaysia. But even that is not certain. For all intents and purposes, he appears so insubstantial that he might almost be a ghost."

"Oh, he's no ghost, trust me on that," Scott said, rubbing the side of his face where the master criminal's gun butt had struck him.

Halima smiled, although it didn't reach her eyes. "No," she agreed. "And there is nothing insubstantial about the wake of death and destruction he leaves behind him."

Scott shook off a vivid flashback to those moments in the cockpit, hauling back on the control levers with all his strength in the desperate attempt to pull Thunderbird One out of her suicide dive. He ignored the sweat that he could feel prickling suddenly across his forehead – he was used by now, as they all were, to living with a certain degree of post traumatic stress. He had learned over the years, beginning when he had flown combat missions for the air force over places like Bereznik in Eastern Europe, that he often didn't get a true realization of just how much danger he had really been in until some time afterwards. When it was safe to fall apart, just a little.

"Qasim al Kahdir is – was – one of the more prominent possible connections to the Hood that we picked up during our initial investigation," Halima was saying. "His primary business was arms dealing, and that is one of the Hood's favorite arenas. Maximum profit for often very minimal risk – at least, minimal for someone of his skills and resources."

"That reminds me, Halima," Jeff broke in. "Did we ever get an idea of what he was doing on the _Colin Powell_ in the first place?"

Halima's dark eyes were sober. "Not for certain. But according to our International Rescue contacts in the Pentagon, the _Colin Powell_ was not on maneuvers with the Chilean Navy. Her true mission is suspected to have been the first field tests of the MSBX-5."

"The MSBX-5?" Scott was startled. "The navy's new floating ballistic missile interceptor system? I didn't even know they had a working prototype of that yet."

Jeff frowned. "Not many people did, son. I wasn't even totally sure of the schedule, and I didn't know it was on the _Colin Powell_." He turned back to Halima. "So you're telling me there's a better than even chance that the Hood has the specs for the MSBX-5."

"Yes. I only have cursory details, of course…this is Felix's territory. He is preparing a complete report for you. He was waiting to confirm one more source, I think."

Jeff was shaking his head. "Damn, that was fast. The Navy boys barely had time to get this one out of the gate."

"It's an accelerated world, Jeff. Not much gets left for the jackals any more."

"No." Jeff sighed. "But that will have to wait until later. Right now I want to hear about Kahdir."

Halima nodded. "We had been following him since we discovered he had a meeting set up in England with the Hood. We thought that was our best chance of making a connection, so Lady Penelope arranged the invitation to the charity event through Ambassador Abdul el Ahmadi in London."

"But something, somewhere, went wrong."

"Yes. We are more or less certain that the man who left Riyadh five days ago was the real Qasim al Kahdir. A disguise might be able to fool those who only work for him, but I doubt that his wife would be so easy to deceive."

Jeff smiled despite himself. "No, you're probably right. But what then?"

"I am not sure how this happened, Mr. Tracy. Neither is Agent 34 in Riyadh. He contacted me as soon as he discovered that Kahdir's pilot had filed a flight plan for Cairo, and I traced his movements after he arrived here. As you know, I have been doing this kind of thing for a long time…and I didn't detect a single sign that anything had changed. As far as I could tell, the man who arrived in Cairo was the same man who left for London four days later. And his entourage must have thought so too, unless there is more than one master of disguise among the Hood's employees."

"But Kahdir never left Cairo, did he," Jeff said slowly. "Any leads at all?"

Halima hesitated. "Nothing concrete. Only rumors."

"Shoot."

"They're saying the Hood killed him. Himself. In person." Halima's eyes had gone very dark. Scott had to shake off the distinct impression that she was fighting down a shudder, experienced undercover agent though she might be. "There is talk that there was a betrayal, an attempt to double-cross. An attempt that failed, obviously."

Something ugly stirred in the pit of his stomach. "Halima…how did Kahdir die?"

He saw the realization hit Jeff even before the words were out of the Egyptian agent's mouth. "According to the police reports, he was garroted." She hesitated. "There were…other injuries…"

Scott made a face, looking away.

Jeff massaged the skin at the bridge of his nose, looking suddenly very weary. "We'd better get Penny out of bed," he said.

* * *

They had only just finished hashing out a plan of action with Penelope when Alan stuck his head around the door and announced that dinner was ready. Scott glanced at the row of wall clocks in surprise, noting that two hours had passed almost without him realizing it. 

_Virgil._ Scott ran a hand through his hair, feeling the tension contract again in the pit of his stomach. Now there was no time to get to his brother before dinner. He'd have to grab him right after the meal…at all costs, he had to talk to him before he got to their father. Otherwise he suspected the result would make a nuclear meltdown look pretty.

Virgil wasn't in evidence when Scott and Jeff reached the dinner table. It was laden as usual with enough food to feed an army, the dishes emitting a mingled aroma that would normally have made Scott's mouth water. But tonight he was too wound up to really be hungry. Brains was sitting at one end of the table, in his own world as usual, scribbling incomprehensible notes on a paper napkin. This was a constant habit with him, and despite Grandma's grumbles, they had switched to paper from cloth in sheer self defense many months ago. So far they had managed to stop him from actually writing on the tablecloth itself, but anything could happen when he went into one of those creative scientific trances of his.

Alan was in the kitchen joking with Kyrano, Ruth and Tin-Tin, and Jeff had stopped to talk to Gordon in the entrance to the hallway. From the snatches that Scott could overhear, his father was filling the family aquanaut in on the news about the MSBX-5. Gordon was listening with a deep frown furrowing the skin between his eyes. Of all of them, the former WASP lieutenant probably knew the most about what was at stake there. Scott made a mental note to check with him to see if there was anything Gordon had been able to add to the discussion he and his father had had earlier.

Grandma came out of the kitchen, Alan and Tin-Tin trailing after her, and announced that it was time to sit and eat before the food got cold…a habitual statement of hers that always made her grandsons smile, coming as it did from the times before the invention of self-warming dishes. They were all seated when Virgil finally appeared, mumbling apologies for being late. Scott tried to catch his eye but Virgil stubbornly wouldn't look at him. It wasn't a good sign. Scott studied his face as he sat down, not liking the paleness of his skin or the rigid set of his jaw. Tropical Storm Virgil was fixing to become a hurricane, as Grandma used to say back when they were kids on the farm in Valley Falls.

Jeff said grace and there was an immediate clatter of dishes and silverware as the Tracys descended on the food like a swarm of starving locusts. For once, Scott sat back and watched the fray, not sure how much he was going to be able to eat anyway. Ever since he had been a child, his stomach had ached – and worse – when he was under stress…and there was plenty of that swirling around him right now.

Gordon was passing around a VPC he had found in his inbox that afternoon. "Take a look at this, everybody. Pete Finn's getting married."

Alan grabbed it. "Pete Finn? From Valley Falls High?"

"Uh huh. I haven't seen him since…"

"Since the Great Mail Box Raid. Right after you guys graduated."

Gordon grinned. "Right. His old man was pretty mad about that one."

"I seem to remember your "old man" taking a pretty dim view of it, too, Gordon," Jeff reminded him, the mock-sternness of his tone not quite hiding the twinkle in his dark grey eyes.

Scott flicked a glance at Virgil, wishing someone would change the subject. His brother's face had gone stony and he was stirring his soup bowl with his spoon in slow, repetitive circles. "Oh, how sweet," Tin-Tin said, leaning over and reading the card with Alan. "Their parents are starting a fund to fly as many as possible of their classmates home for the wedding."

Gordon grinned. "Think I should sign up?"

"Heck, yeah," Alan said. "I'd love to see Pete's dad's face when he sees where they're flying _you_ in from!"

"I remember Pete Finn," Grandma said. "He gave his family every bit as much grief as you two did, if I recall rightly."

"Thank you, Grandma," Gordon said, his tone serious but his eyes twinkling every bit as much as his father's had done.

"Who is he marrying?" Grandma asked. "Does the poor girl have a name?"

"Michelle Dunlap," Tin-Tin read off the card.

"Michelle…oh!" Alan's face cleared. "_Micki _Dunlap? Pete's marrying Micki Dunlap?"

"No," Gordon said suddenly, thumping his forehead with the heel of his hand.

"No?" Grandma said, confused.

"We can't let Micki marry Pete!"

"Why not?" Alan looked just as confused as Grandma. "They're not related or anything, are they?"

Gordon rolled his eyes. "You've been watching Tin-Tin's soap operas again."

"Oh, no," Grandma said, having finally gotten her hands on the card. "That's terrible!"

"What's terrible, Mother?" Jeff asked.

"She'll be Micki Finn!"

Tin-Tin choked on her mashed potatoes. Gordon thumped her sympathetically on the back.

"You know, I just can't get used to these virtual post card things," Grandma said as Alan poured the spluttering, red-faced Tin-Tin a glass of water. "What's wrong with real handwriting and a good old fashioned stamp?"

"Well, for one thing, those good old fashioned stamps are a good deal more expensive than they were in your day, mother," Jeff reminded her. "Not to mention the cost of fuel to fly a little bit of paper like that all the way across the world. It just doesn't make economic sense with oil prices the way they are, and alternative fuel sources aren't any cheaper right now…they're just less polluting."

"Well, Jeff, if you and Brains would get on with finding a way to share that water-based fuel of yours…"

"That takes time and resources, Mother. And I somehow doubt that the US Mail wants to spend billions of dollars converting their mail fleet overnight."

"Uh, no, that's, ah, true," Brains put in, looking up from his napkin collection. "Takers are, uh, more likely to, ah, come from the, ah, private sector, Mrs. Tracy."

"That's right, Brains," Jeff nodded. "If we can interest a company like FedEx-UPS, for instance, then we'd be getting somewhere."

"But how does that help the US Mail deliver me a postcard?" Grandma asked.

"Competition," Jeff said. "If FedEx-UPS signs up to convert their fleet, the money they save, after factoring in the initial investment, will enable them to reduce their prices. And then the US Mail will have to follow suit or be forced out of business."

"Well, at least that makes more sense than farming," Grandma said. "Back when your grandfather was your age, Brains, they tried to pay us _not_ to grow crops."

"And you wonder why I didn't want to be a farmer?" Jeff smiled, shaking his head.

"Speaking of fuel prices," Virgil said, suddenly. "If we're going to set up a fund to fly _our_ classmates in when one of us gets married, we'd better start now."

Scott shot him a sharp glance, but Virgil still refused to meet his eyes. "Of course, we probably wouldn't want to hold the ceremony here. Bit awkward to keep rushing them downstairs to the lab and sticking headphones on them every time we have to launch."

Alarm bells started ringing in Scott's head. Out of the corner of his vision, he could see Gordon also watching Virgil intently, as if thought he'd finally figured out the answer to a puzzle and was waiting to see if he was right. He and Scott were the only two people who seemed to realize there was a train wreck about to happen. "How _would_ that work, Dad?" Virgil said, his voice rising a little, something wrong with the pitch of it. "What _would_ we do if one of us…found someone?"

Jeff looked around at him, all levity gone from his expression. A deep frown creased his forehead, although he didn't sound at all angry. "Virgil, you know the rules. We've all been over this. International Rescue is a secret organization, and must remain so. No outsiders, under any circumstances. It's just too dangerous, for us and for them. Sure, of course people can swear that they won't reveal our secrets…but what do they tell their families? And what if you had children? Would you keep them locked up on the island until they got old enough to lie about what their father does for a living? Or would you lie to your child instead and be a long distance father, visiting him whenever you could? And what of the danger that you would be putting your wife and child and her family in, from the people out there who would stop at nothing to get at what we have? No, son, I understand what you're saying. But it's out of the question, at least for the foreseeable future."

"That's so damn easy for you to say, isn't it."

The words were out of Scott's mouth before he realized he was going to say them. Almost in slow motion he saw his father's head swivel towards him, saw the surprise begin to dawn on the faces of the others around the table.

He couldn't stop himself. There was something about the kindly but implacable way his father was delivering that old familiar speech. Something about the frozen look of helplessness on Virgil's face. Something about the fierce longing ache inside him for something he, himself, wanted so badly and could not have. "And you know why it's so easy, Dad? Because you _had_ yours. You had your wife, your children. You're not making any sacrifices to keep this family frozen in time like a goddamned ice sculpture."

"Scott!" Grandma disliked language in polite company, but the floodgates were open and there was nothing Scott could do to prevent the words from coming out now. He'd apologize later. If he and his father didn't wind up burning the island down first.

"Scott," Jeff said slowly, stiffly, "You, of all people, are very well aware of what your mother…"

"You want to talk about Mom?" Scott cut him off. "Okay. Let's talk about her. You met her when you were both what…eight years old? You knew her for _twenty-seven years,_ Dad…that's a lifetime compared with what most people get nowadays! And what have we had? What have you _allowed_ us to have? Nothing but sacrifices."

Jeff's face was flushed dark with anger, but he was still trying to control his voice. "How dare you talk to me about sacrifices, when your mother gave her life…"

"Gave her life? _Gave_ her life? That's bullshit, Dad, and you know it!" Scott's voice was rising now, but he could do nothing to stem the tide. "Don't talk about her like she _wanted_ to die! She fought for every last breath, and I know because I was _there,_ Dad, and you weren't. I was right there when…when…"

He was dimly aware that his father was staring at him not only in anger now but in shock and disbelief. He was also aware that he'd just played a very dirty card, but he couldn't help himself. The words came boiling out like the pyroclastic flow from a volcano that had been too long dormant. "It isn't Mom's fault you gave up on life after she died. And if you're doing all this for her, _you_ made that choice, all on your own. Don't act like she had a clause in her will that said, 'Jeff, take the boys, go live on a deserted island, dedicate your life to saving strangers because you'll never stop beating yourself up because you _couldn't save me…' _"

"Scott!" Jeff thundered, on his feet now. "This conversation is over!"

Scott shoved his chair back with a screech of its legs on the polished wood floor. He stood up, fists clenched at his sides, body stiff with fury. "The time is long gone when I let you decide a conversation of mine is over," he forced out from between clenched teeth.

"Scott, Jeff, stop it, please," Grandma pleaded. It suddenly dawned on Scott that she must be afraid there was going to be a physical fight. He was surprised to realize that he was actually contemplating it, poised on the balls of his feet, the possibility sending a frisson of electricity racing across his nerves.

He glanced at her face, at her pale expression, the bright spots of color in her cheeks. Her eyes, fixed on him, filled with horror at what he was doing. Her hands, gripping the edge of the table as if she was ready to throw herself in between them, if necessary. And something deep inside him stirred, reasserting itself. He couldn't do this to her. He couldn't be the one who crossed this line.

He looked briefly across the table, taking in Virgil's shocked stare, then threw the napkin he had forgotten he was holding on to the table. It made the silverware rattle against the plate, his water glass rocking once but not quite tipping over. He turned abruptly and stalked towards the hallway.

At the last moment he turned back around, staring at his father, eyes still hard. "Something needs to change around here, Father. And soon. Otherwise you're going to wind up losing all of us."

Without waiting for a response, he headed down the corridor towards the elevator. He didn't hear a single sound from the dining room, right up to the moment the doors closed behind him.

* * *

Virgil found him on the ledge a half hour later. 

'The ledge' was a small, natural, basin-like depression a third of the way from the top of the central volcanic tube that had formed Tracy Island. The 'back side' of the tube, as they usually referred to the side furthest away from the villa and the landing strip, sloped much more gently toward the tropical vegetation of the island, and there were numerous deep fissures, openings, caves and other interesting formations that had been caused by the lava flows as they cooled. Scott and Virgil had discovered the ledge while they were scouting for a place to put in a ventilation tube, emerging from an opening in the side of the mountain on to this hidden out-thrust of rock that offered in its scooped-out surface a perfect place to spend the afternoon alone, or have a picnic, or get together and talk about something you didn't want to share with the rest of the family. They'd claimed the place for themselves immediately, and found a location for the ventilation tube somewhere else.

Scott had spent the time sitting on the raised lip-like edge of the depression, staring out at the spectacular view of the tropical ocean that surrounded them. He'd been through everything he knew to do when his mood plunged like this, but nothing had helped soothe or calm him, not even thinking about flying. He longed to take one of the jets out and go up there and find some peace, but he had to wait until he had talked to Virgil, and he knew that would happen before the night was over, especially after what had just happened at the dinner table.

He couldn't believe he'd said the things he'd said to his father…and in front of the whole family, too. It wasn't that they weren't true, but still. This was what Grandma had always said when they were growing up, though. If you hold things in, one day they're all going to come out, and sometimes at the worst possible time.

His stomach ached fiercely. He wondered, not for the first time in recent weeks, if he was going to wind up with an ulcer one day the way things were going.

"I'm sorry," Virgil said, from behind him.

Scott turned, the sight of his favorite brother and best friend already beginning to spread the familiar welcome feeling of calm through his veins. Virgil always had this effect on him, even when things were pretty dire. _There's nothing we can't solve,_ he used to tell him when they were kids_, if we work on it together._ The memory made him feel stronger, somehow – more hopeful that a solution to this mess could really be found. "Sorry? What for?"

"For taking the bullet for me, of course," Virgil said, shaking his head as he walked forward. "You didn't have to do that. I dug that hole for myself, I should have taken the punishment."

Scott smiled. "How many times have I told you…I'm your big brother. It's my job."

Scott stood up into the tight hug that his brother offered. "I thought Dad was going to kill you," Virgil said as he stepped back finally. "We all did."

Scott snorted. "He's just a guy, Virg. You're all just suffering from a bad case of being told what to do by him all of your natural life."

"And you aren't?" Virgil cocked an eyebrow. "For what it's worth, though, I think you've just been voted a god by Al and Gordo."

Scott's mouth twisted. "I'm not proud of what I said down there, Virg. I don't know what came over me. I never meant to deliberately hurt him like that. I just couldn't…stop."

Virgil studied him. "I think Grandma thought you were going to hit him," he said, after a moment.

"Maybe I was." Scott stared at the ground, remembering the way he had felt – every nerve on the alert, battle ready. "I was angry enough. The way he was talking to you…"

"He was just saying the same things he's always said," Virgil said. "Are you sure all that was about me?"

Scott looked at him. "When did you suddenly get so reasonable?" he asked suspiciously. "Did someone stage a coup down there after I left?"

But Virgil wouldn't be deflected. "Come on, Scott, this is me you're talking to. Much as I appreciate what you did down there, you didn't go off like that just because you were worried about me."

Scott smiled, clapping a hand to his chest. "You wound me, Virg."

He tried to look away, but he could feel Virgil's eyes on still on him, probing like x-rays. "It was that girl in New Jersey, wasn't it. The blonde from the Oceans Cup rescue. This is about her."

Scott closed his eyes. "Please tell me I'm not that transparent."

"Only to me," Virgil said. He smiled, all of a sudden. "And maybe Grandma. Who knows what she knows? She's pretty cagey."

"Well, she's going to have to be, if she ever wants grandchildren," Scott said, mouth quirking despite himself.

Virgil cleared his throat. "So…Miss New Jersey…"

Scott gave him a look. "Tally. Tally Somerville. She's… Her brother was the captain of the _Spirit of Nantucket_. I…."

He took a deep breath, trying to find the words. "I kept thinking about her, Virg, after the Oceans Cup rescue. I tried not to…but she kept just…showing up. In the hospital in Sydney. And at the rescue in New Jersey. And then…"

"Aha!" A look of smug comprehension crossed Virgil's features. "_That's_ why you were so gung ho to charge off and take my place in New York!"

"Well, that wasn't the only reason," Scott said, mildly reproachful.

Virgil grinned. "Was it worth it?"

For a moment, Scott caught his breath as he was flooded almost painfully with memories of that night…the most perfect night of his life. He stared out over the water to hide the burning at the back of his eyes. "Yeah," he said at last, quietly.

Virgil squeezed his shoulder. "If it helps, I know," he said. "That's what it's like with Liz. Every time I'm with her. It feels like…the rest of my life."

Scott nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Everything Virgil said struck truth right to the core of him, threatened to open up that deep ugly pit of despair he had been trying to hard not to look at. _What are we going to do?_ he thought, a little helplessly. It all seemed so overwhelming, suddenly, such a huge obstacle to find a way around. He bit his lip. "The hell of it is, I know Dad's right. The things he says…there's a reason. He's trying to protect us, keep us safe. It's a scary world out there even for us…look what just happened to me in Thunderbird One! How much worse would it be for our families, our children?"

"I know," Virgil said. "I know all that. But we can't stay like this forever, either."

"No." Scott stared out to sea.

"I can't do this any more," Virgil said, after a moment. "Every time I think about it what Liz said to me, I panic. What if I'm too late? What if I wait too long, and she won't…"

Scott looked around at him, trying not to let the fear inside him show. "Don't do anything hasty, Virg, please. Let me work on this. I'll find a compromise, I swear I will. I just need a little time."

"I don't think I have time, Scott." Virgil glanced down at him, and Scott's protest died on his lips. He knew that look of firm resolution. Virgil's mind was made up.

_The winds of change._ Scott was abruptly broadsided by the memory of how he'd felt that day in Launch Control after the New Jersey rescue, watching Virgil bring Thunderbird Two home. _Is this how it feels for Dad?_ he thought, understanding suddenly flooding him. _This fear of things changing, because you can't control what you might be going to lose?_

"I'll fix this," he said, so quietly it was almost to himself. "I will."

Virgil didn't answer. There was nothing else to say. He just stood there beside Scott in silence, and they watched the moon rise over the ocean together.

* * *

It took Jeff a while to hunt through the extensive Tracy Villa pantry to find the package of leftover cookies. Ruth always made two leftover packages when she baked, something only he knew. The first one was for the boys to find, the second was strictly for himself and her. The boys had never tumbled to the fact that there were two packages, something that always made Jeff smile. Maybe the sheer skill and cunning with which she always hid the first one was enough to make them believe she never intended them to find it. 

One thing was for sure, it had been a lot easier to find both packages in the pantry of the old farmhouse. This new one was built to last, like everything else on the island, and could hold enough food for an army. Or five grown men with a highly physical occupation, whichever consumed more – privately, Jeff's money was on his sons. And to say it was big was an understatement. Ruth had taken one look at the pantry the first time she walked into it and said, "Oh, look at this…even your food has its own apartment!"

He spotted the green and white freshpak at last, tucked in tight at the back of a shelf near the ceiling. A touch of a button rotated the stainless steel racks over and down, bringing it within reach. He retrieved it and returned the racks to their original position, taking the cookies back to the kitchen. A pause on the way to take a carton of milk from the fridge, another to add a glass from a nearby cabinet, and the preparations were complete. He sat down at the table and snapped the vacuum seal on the freshpak.

The aroma hit him instantly. Chocolate chip with pecans – Lucille's wonderful old family recipe, brought to Kansas by her mother when they had moved up from Oklahoma the year she and Jeff had met. 1978. She had had them in her backpack the first time he saw her, and the smell would always remind him of that first day of school the year they were both eight. He could still remember it vividly – the first time he ever saw her. She was waiting for the bus with a bunch of other kids, none of whom he could recall at all, now. But her, he would never forget – a skinny, long-limbed tomboy with a thick fall of shining chestnut hair and huge brown eyes. As she climbed on the bus and walked down the aisle toward him, she'd noticed him staring and fixed him with the most dazzling smile he had ever seen.

After all these years, it was still the most dazzling. In his heart, he knew it always would be. There might be other smiles, but even though he might care for them deeply, they would never own him, heart and soul, like she had. But time had been kind…at least he could remember her smile now without feeling as if a rusty knife had been plunged into his chest. He still missed her…he would always miss her…but over the years the pain had slowly mellowed into an ache that although never exactly comfortable, could still be borne.

"I see you found the cookies."

Jeff jumped in the act of pouring milk into the glass, spilling it across the tabletop. "Mother! Don't sneak up on me like that."

Ruth brought a sponge from the enormous stainless steel double sink and handed it to him. She was wearing her old lightweight chenille robe, he noted with an inward eye roll. She had several much newer, more expensive robes hanging in her closet, including a lovely embroidered silk one he'd picked out for her during his last trip to Hong Kong. But she still clung stubbornly to the one that had seen her through many Kansas summer nights, sitting on the back porch of the farmhouse with her family.

Stubbornness, he thought. Definitely a Tracy trait – he'd gotten it from both sides of the family.

"Milk and cookies?" Ruth asked, eyebrows raised a little.

Jeff had to fight not to gather the glass and the freshpak to him and glower at her like a rebellious teenager. "What are you doing up?" he countered.

"Couldn't sleep. You?" She sat down opposite him at the table, eyeing his prize speculatively.

Jeff sighed and gave in, pushing the cookies to where she could reach them. She'd have to get her own milk. "Indigestion again," he said, making a face.

"Well, I'm not a bit surprised, after that little display at dinner," Ruth remarked tartly. "Keep this up and you'll wind up with ulcers like your father."

Jeff stared at his glass of milk, avoiding her piercing gaze, the legacy of her fiery-tempered Mackenzie ancestry. Her hair, back before it turned gray, had been the same red-gold as Gordon's. "I don't know what's gotten into Scott lately," he said, managing to make it not quite a mumble.

"Scott's a good boy. He'll try to make this right between you. The question is, will you let him?"

Jeff looked up at her sharply. "Mother, what are you talking about?"

"For heavens sake, why are you Tracy men all so dense?" Ruth shook her head. "It's natural for a son, especially an eldest son, to want to step out from the shadow of his father, to want his own place in the world. You did that, twice, in two completely different ways. But your own son has never really had that chance."

"You don't think what he's doing here is worthwhile?" Jeff was surprised.

"That's not what I said," Ruth pointed out. "Scott can achieve great things here, and we'll all be proud of him until the day we die. But nobody but us will ever know. He won't get his chance to shine out there in the world, like you did. Which means he'll never really be out from behind your shadow."

Jeff felt his eyebrows lower defensively. "Getting decorated for bravery by the air force wasn't having a chance to shine?"

"He earned that with his own sweat and blood," Ruth said sharply. "Don't act as if you gave it to him. That boy had a great career in front of him – those medals were just the beginning. Who knows how far he would have gone?"

Jeff could feel the anger rising inside him again, like it had at the dining table. He realized belatedly how much of it was a smoke screen – simple self-defense. "Mother," he growled, "are you _ever_ going to let me off the hook about the Mars mission?"

"That depends. Have you even talked to him about it?"

Jeff snorted. "You know very well I haven't. Have you forgotten that Virgil told us he doesn't want me to know, under any circumstances? How do I talk to him about something I'm not even supposed to _know_ about?"

"Ah, and that makes it very convenient for you, doesn't it? You don't ask and he doesn't tell, and you both keep right on pretending."

"Dammit, Mother…"

"Don't you use that language with me, Jefferson Tracy. I am still your mother."

Jeff stared at her for a long time. At last he exhaled noisily, picking up a cookie and stabbing it meaningfully into his milk.

Ruth watched him. Then she said, her voice softer now but no less serious, "You know why Scott's here, and it's not just because he wanted to support your dream, Jeff."

His spine went rigid, his hand tightening on the glass…but he refused to look at her. After a moment she got up from the table and went past him toward the door.

She paused for a moment before exiting, staring at his back. "He's right, you know. Something has to change. Or you really will lose them all."

He didn't turn around, even after he heard the door close behind her.

_To be continued..._


End file.
